


In Another Universe

by rosequartzstars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Academia, Adult relationship, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Astor Greengrass, Astoria Greengrass is a man, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, College Football, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Draco Malfoy is a Good Friend, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Smut, Football | Soccer, Gen, Ginny Weasley is a Good Friend, Harry Potter is a Good Friend, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Multi, Parallelism, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Shared past, Slow Burn, University, football is a substitute for quidditch, grad students, mild references to abusive relationships, mild references to noncon, romione, romione au, slow burn romione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 57
Words: 164,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24425818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosequartzstars/pseuds/rosequartzstars
Summary: Hermione Granger is brilliant: she completed her PhD in Linguistics at 25, and is the youngest faculty member at the University. Ron Weasley, an unruly quantum physicist... well, he's getting there. But when Granger gets stacked with a project she hates and has to talk to other scholars at the University, their paths cross and become permanently intertwined in a way neither of them could've ever anticipated. (Slow Burn Romione Muggle Uni AU)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 188
Kudos: 147
Collections: Hermione Granger AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In Another Universe (Original One-Shot)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25204381) by [rosequartzstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosequartzstars/pseuds/rosequartzstars). 



"You wanted to see me, Dr. Shacklebolt?"

"Ah, Dr. Granger! Please do come in," the deep voice beckoned her from inside the office, and Hermione Granger stepped primly inside and shut the door behind her. This was hardly the first time she'd been in the Head of University's office: at age 25, she was already one of the most achieved students to have ever gone through the university: she had already completed her PhD in Linguistics, and had breezed through her three degrees about three times faster than the average student would have. For this, she had no explanation other than sheer love of learning: it came naturally to her, impassioned her, gave her a reason to be. So what to others had seemed like unmanageable coursework, to her had been a delectable challenge. And Dr. Shacklebolt, thoroughly impressed with her, had hosted her in his office numerous times, finding her a charming student to just sit and chat with.

But she could tell today he hadn't called her in just to chat: he sat behind his desk with his back ramrod straight and his hands folded over the table, like she had seen him pose whenever the matters he addressed were serious. As she sat down, her mind started racing: had he called her here to dismiss her? To tell her he was giving her class to someone else? To — _oh, God_ — scold her? Her fears were unfounded: this was only the first year she joined the faculty at the University, and with summer scarcely over, she hadn't even gotten a chance to teach a class yet, much less to screw one up irrevocably. But her worries were common: accustomed to success, she dreaded anyone being disappointed with her. But then Dr. Shacklebolt cracked a small smile, and her unease largely vanished, though a trace still bubbled at the pit of her stomach.

"Don't worry, Dr. Granger," Shacklebolt, who knew her all too well, assured her. "I haven't brought you in for anything bad— in fact, quite the opposite."

The worry gurgling in her stomach quickly morphed into an excited nervousness: what did he have in store for her? She sat a little straighter in her chair and waited for him to keep talking.

"I'm sure you've heard about our new initiative to promote the University—"

She _had_ heard of it— but it hadn't been good. The University's PR department kept churning out failed advert after failed advert, and even Granger, who seldom kept up with social media, could feel the university's popularity declining. Her grimace must have said it all, because Shacklebolt grimaced as well and continued: "Yes, granted, it has been a catastrophe. But, over the summer, me and Professor McGonagall thought out a potential strategy to get the University on better standing— mainly, not to let the PR team take the reins by themselves anymore."

This had piqued Granger's interest: Professor McGonagall, an eminence in the Humanities department and one of her thesis supervisors, stood behind this idea, so she was eager to hear it. After all, anything would be better than those dreadful adverts, but still, if McGonagall's name was tied in...

Shacklebolt continued: "We want to launch an academically-focused campaign, one that highlights different members of our University and what their experience is like in it. Particularly, we want to highlight young scholars, particularly grad students, much like yourself, who are already pursuing higher fields of study and are still in their twenties, to highlight what a great offer the University is for young, ambitious students. Besides, to take the focus away from pure appearance marketing and actually focusing on our academic offer, I think, will set us apart from most of these other schools."

Granger agreed: it was why she had chosen this university, after all, since it was the only one that seemed to offer itself on the basis of its academic strengths rather than the charms of its location, campus, student life, or food scene... In her mind, you went to uni to study, and so academics should be at the forefront. She knew Shacklebolt knew her opinion on this, and furthermore, that he agreed.

He seemed to read her mind: "I know how passionate you are about it, hence why I brought you in. See, we're thinking of documenting how different people speak and communicate in their fields, and in the process learn a bit more about the academic philosophies behind each and what it's like to be a scholar here, what prospective students can expect should they choose to attend. So, for example, we're going to highlight how all the STEM people seem to use numbers as a second language, almost, and how the Humanities people tend to be more verbose or use larger words, and how the lab people seem to be more informal, and how the arts people often use words that sound made-up— I mean, you get it," he said, aware that he had started to ramble. "You do get it, don't you?"

"I do," Granger said, intrigued by the project. As a linguist, she couldn't help but picking up on the language differences even between those who existed in a same geographical space and spoke the same language, yet had interests lying in different places. She couldn't help but think of how cool it was that the University had picked the thought constantly at the back of her mind and chosen to run with it. "I think it's fascinating."

"Oh, stellar," said Shacklebolt, grinning, "because that actually leads in to my question for you—"

"Yes, I would love to advise the PR department on this!" squealed Granger, getting ahead of him. However, her effervescence quickly fizzled out when she noticed his smile had faltered.

"Well, no, actually, not that. I was going to ask you whether you would research and direct it."

Her stomach sank, suddenly aware of all that something like that would imply. Not only would she have to put off her own research for as long as this took, but she'd have to speak to other students in her age range, and that had always been hard for her, finding it easier to get along with the faculty...

"But I'm not a sociolinguist!" she blurted out, the only defensible excuse she could come up with.

"So what? You got your PhD at 25, and that brilliance shows me there's nothing you can do when it comes to linguistics, _Dr._ Granger," he said, carefully enunciating the ' _doctor'_. Shacklebolt had never called her Ms. Granger since she'd gotten her doctorate (which most of her male colleagues seemed to have a harder time doing...), but she could tell he was now emphasizing the flattering title in order to butter her up to accept his request.

She shook her head no, still tight-lipped, shocked at the possibility that she'd have to undertake something so out of her comfort zone. Shacklebolt sighed and abandoned the flattery, resorting to new tactics: "Let's be honest, Dr. Granger. They still haven't found the missing scroll in that Celtic cave system you were studying, and without it, you can't continue deciphering them. Your research, for the foreseeable future, is stalled." His words hit her with a hard pang: she hated that her research had dropped off just as soon as it'd taken off, because, being the youngest faculty member, she felt like she had a lot to prove and she couldn't do it without work to do. But to hear Dr. Shacklebolt confirm it —that her workload for the year was, until the archaeologists advanced further, nonexistent— hurt worse than the countless nights she'd lost sleep over it. "Dr. Granger, I know this is a less than ideal situation, but the University's faculty is always engaged in a research project of some kind..."

"Yes, but when I became a linguist, I swore the one field I'd never go into was advertising," Granger huffed, arms tightly crossed around her chest.

Shacklebolt sighed: "Yes, I know. It's tough when your academic passions seem cut-short, or less important. But I'm asking you to do this as a favor to me, Dr. Granger. I've asked you for it because I know you have the talent to _make_ something incredible out of it, not go around campus highlighting all your friends or the better-looking students like I know PR may have a penchant for doing. So, please, doctor, would you consider undertaking this project for me?"

Granger sighed. He had a point, and if he was entrusting her with something this important to him as young as she was, she couldn't afford to disappoint him. "Alright," she acquiesced, "I'll do it." Shacklebolt grinned, a rare occurrence for the usually emotionally-refrained man. "How long will this take?"

"We're not planning on releasing this till next year," Shacklebolt said, "so you have until... oh, let's see... yes, it should take up all of this academic year, being ideal. So you have from here until early May, I would say."

Granger felt her heart falter: devoting _all academic year_ to a project she didn't even love and was doing as a favor to her mentor? But she'd accepted, so she swallowed her discontent, nodded sullenly, and got up to leave Shacklebolt's office.

"Think about it, doctor," she heard Shacklebolt say hurriedly behind her back, almost apologetically, "this will give you a way to delve into new projects, step out of your comfort zone..."

 _You don't need to remind me_ , thought Granger as she left the room, her mind invaded with the horrifying thought of having to go around campus speaking to the very students that thought she was a stuck-up, and for a project that wasn't even her own, _I'm very well-aware of how uncomfortable this will be_.


	2. Chapter 2

"Alright, Hermione, let's go over this," Harry said, sipping from his coffee before it went cold.

Faced with the terrifying prospect of having to talk to people that may not necessarily want to talk to her —and faced with the fact that she really didn't know a lot of people her age in the University—, Granger had desperately resorted to the one person she knew could always help: Harry Potter.

An easygoing man with permanently messy black hair and green eyes behind thick glasses, Harry had degrees in both law and philosophy, but rather than become a defense attorney like everyone had expected him to, considering his brilliance, he had preferred to teach others the very skills he was so gifted at. In another defiance of expectations, he hadn't pursued a PhD, arguing that the amount of coursework involved in the program would've kept him away from his students —and from the football pitch— too much. He was a well-known figure on campus and one of the most approachable people the University faculty had to offer: everyone loved Harry, and everyone _knew_ Harry— but, more importantly for Granger, Harry knew everyone too.

So, when she'd called and asked for help, he'd gladly agreed to meet with her at their favorite coffee shop and draft a list of people Harry knew and Granger could talk to. Harry knew people from a broad range of fields— which was exactly what Shacklebolt was looking for. And that's how they'd ended up crowding over a small table with steaming cups by their elbows, poring over Harry's extensive contact list and choosing those who they thought would be the best fit.

"So, we've got Luna Lovegood down for Psychology. She's only an undergrad, but she's a smart girl and she'll happily talk to you, she's very friendly— mind you, she can be a bit... odd at times," Harry said, ticking off a box next to her name. Granger was intrigued by what exactly he meant by _odd_ , but she didn't think she'd have to do much guessing: she'd seen a blond, wild-haired girl wander around campus, invariably donning some eccentric garment and decorated with jewelry she thought could've been made out of plants, and she could take a good guess as to who that could be.

"Now, we've got Neville Longbottom down for Biology, he was in our year when we started uni..." Harry continued, and Granger could picture him: a plump man with a gentle disposition and a permanent smile, who Granger had exchanged some pleasant words with on a few occasions. "Neville will also happily talk to you. Mind you, he's a bit forgetful, so you should be ready for your recording to be interrupted with him randomly calling out things he's only remembered, or trailing off trying to do so. But, a good man," Harry smiled: Neville was a close friend of his.

He moved the pencil down to a name that he pronounced as sharply as it seemed to be written: "Draco Malfoy. Chemistry." Seeing Granger's intrigued expression at his last name, he quickly explained: "It's French. Malfoy's a bit more trouble, we used to hate each other but he owes me a favor... He can be a bit of a prick, though, but he respects those he thinks measure up to him. Just don't get nervous around him, be your usual strong self and you should be fine." Granger could picture him: a sneering, white-blond guy who kept mostly to himself.

Harry paused to take a sip of his coffee and grimaced— from the memory of an enmity long past, Granger thought, not from the bitterness, since he took his coffee with spoonful upon spoonful of sugar. Hermione much preferred tea, and her floral infusion was steaming beside her. She picked it up and sipped from it, waiting for Harry to resume talking. Harry took another sip and then turned his attention back to the list, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose the way he did when he was trying to regain focus.

"Next up is Dean Thomas. Nice guy, great artist, he's a Fellow of Architecture now. He's one of the chiller picks on this list, he'll hardly give you any trouble or weird vibes. And this here," he said, moving his pencil down another name, "is his _friend_ Seamus Finnigan," he said, without pausing to explain the suggestive emphasis he'd placed on _friend_ , but his raised eyebrows and a hint of a smile gave Granger a clue. "I hope he counts, he's not a postgrad, he finished his Bachelor's in Computer Science and now he works for the University's IT Department. He also digitalizes Dean's sketches for him, good lad, and he's on the football team..." Harry trailed off, the way he usually did when he thought about football, his life's singular passion after his teaching, where he played striker on the University team.

Granger knew he'd take a few moments to stop daydreaming about getting back on the field, but when he took a bit longer than she expected, she cleared her throat and butted in: "Yes, Harry, I think Seamus should be fine, it doesn't matter that he's not a postgrad."

Harry was pulled out of his daze briskly, and looked back at Granger confusedly for a second before regaining his train of thought and, once again, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Fantastic, he'll be very pleased. And, while we're on the topic of the football team, I think you might want to talk to Ginny— she finished her Bachelor's in gender studies last year and she's starting up a Masters in statistics, so that should cover two academic fields for you. God, she's so smart..." he started to trail off again, a particular fan of boasting about his girlfriend's achievements, but Granger was quicker to yank him out of his thoughts this time.

"Great, Ginny was on my list from the get-go. Anyone else?" she said, combing over the list with her eyes. Suddenly she clapped a palm against her forehead: "Oh, we don't have anyone from the physical sciences..."

"What do you mean? There's Draco and Neville already," Harry said, tapping their names on the list with his pencil.

"Yes, but I'd love to get someone from physics, just to sort of make up for the fact that we don't have any hard mathematics— don't look at me that way, Harry, statistics is most definitely maths, but it's not the theoretical kind I know Shacklebolt was referring to when he spoke about the maths people," she said, anticipating the look of indignation at what he could've perceived as an offense to Ginny.

"You do have a point," Harry said, the momentary indignation vanishing into thoughtfulness. "I suppose there's always—"

"No," Granger deadpanned. She knew who he was thinking, but she refused to be around him more than she absolutely had to. "I'm not asking McLaggen. Are you sure you don't know anyone else in the physics department?"

"Well..." Harry began, and Granger shifted in her seat. His expression had changed from when he was listing out his other friends, somehow looking more jovial now. "There's Ron —you might know him, red hair, always a mess—, who's a quantum physicist. He's my best mate —Ginny's brother, actually, he introduced me to her— but I haven't talked to him in a while (you know how physics research goes, his schedule's a nightmare). Y'know, he'd be happy to talk to you too, and he's a much better pick than McLaggen, now that I think about it."

Granger was a bit suspicious: if this Ron was his best mate, why hadn't he recommended him first? Why was McLaggen the first option? It couldn't be because of a matter of personal bias— he had jumped to offer up Ginny, after all. However, her cavilations were interrupted by the sheer relief of not having to speak to McLaggen, who'd been trying to get in her pants since they were undergrads and never took no for an answer, and she decided that whoever this Ron person might be, even if there was something shady about this all, was a much better option.

"Sounds good," Granger agreed, and Harry nodded before grabbing his pencil and scribbling _RONALD WEASLEY, PHYSICS_ at the bottom of the page, giving it a swift underline. And as Granger looked over the list again, her eyes fixed upon that final name, thinking it sounded familiar.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief flashback into undergrad orientation day, which provides some context as to why the name "Ronald Weasley" sounds familiar to Granger...

_Hermione sits against a tree trunk on the university lawn, frowning down at her book as she attempts to tune out the racket around her. She's never been a fan of orientation days— ever since she went to school, she dreaded the days before the official start of class: she hated the fact that before she could shine in the classroom, she had to be reminded of how much she hated being forced to socialize and interact with others. It didn't help that, when she went to school, she used to get badly bullied, and orientation days at the beginning of each year were a daylong opportunity to get on her nerves. She's going to university now, and none of her old classmates are around— but still, she wishes she could go straight into class, raise her hand, and be spared the pain of thinking this year would be any different before she invariably got labeled a know-it-all._

_However, as she looks around, resigning herself to the fact that concentrating on her reading might be an impossible task, she can't help but feel a pang of jealousy at how easy it is for others to blend in right away. She looks at the girls, already walking around the lawn in gaggles, laughing and exchanging numbers; she looks at the boys, who've started pickup games of football around the lawn and are already kicking the ball contentedly around the lawn. She can't help but wonder what it'd be like to have such an ease with people, to not have to look to others older than her because those her age think she's prissy and stuck-up._ I'm not _, she wants to tell them_ , I just have different interests.

But then again _, a voice nags her inside her head_ , you never really make an effort to stay and show them how you really are, do you? 

_She swats the little voice away, closes her book with the bookmark slipped between the pages, takes a deep breath, and lets her hair down from the hairclip before gathering it up again— something that always helps her refocus. She has nothing to worry about. After today, it'll be the first day of undergrad, and she'll be back in her element, where she feels she truly belongs: in class, between books, immersed in learning. And then she won't have a moral responsibility to socialize, just to study. That's what she came to uni for, isn't it?_ C'mon, Hermione, _she tells herself,_ just a few more hours of this and then we'll be good to go tomorrow.

_Feeling calmer, she peels her gaze from her peers, reopens her book where she left off, and settles back against the tree with the intent to read—_

_And then she almost gets decapitated by a Frisbee that comes flying out of nowhere, hitting the trunk behind her with a loud_ thunk! _and falling at her feet. She jumps with a start, the book flying out of her hands, and stays wide-eyed until a redhead in a green tank comes bounding up to her, waving his hand cheerily. As he gets nearer, Hermione can start to make out his face: he's tall, with a long nose and a freckled face, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth and his face split in a grin: he's obviously having the time of his life. "Oi!" he calls as he gets closer, breaking into a little jog until he's right in front of her._

_He crouches down to her level and grabs the Frisbee, staying down. "Hello!" he greets her jovially, and she swears she doesn't understand how is it that his grin gets wider. "Sorry about that, my bud Neville's an awful shot with a Frisbee. We keep trying to keep him away from it, but every so often he catches it and there's no force on Heaven or Earth that can keep him from chucking it... Anyway, I'm glad it didn't hit you, that would've made for an awkward introduction. I'm Ron, Ron Weasley," he says, extending out a pale hand to her, the other one still gripping the Frisbee._

_She watches the hand suspended in midair, the redhead's expression still wild with glee, and reluctantly (he reeks of sweat, after all) she holds her own hand out and shakes his. Contented, the redhead withdraws his hand and she reopens her book, ready to dive back into it. But he doesn't move. He stays crouched in front of her, his chest still heaving with the effort of his sprint, and seems to wait. When it's clear she's not budging, he prompts her: "I didn't get a name, y'know."_

_She freezes: her name? A million thoughts flash through her head, and she stops herself from huffing out the first H in 'Hermione': back in school, she used to go up to everyone and shake their hand firmly, declaring "I'm Hermione Granger" without having to be asked to do so. And she remembers that, whenever she did that, whoever she was introducing herself to would grimace slightly and pull away their hand— then, when she left, they'd invariably turn to the closest person around them and whisper about how weird that Granger girl was,_ and did you see what a stupid name she has, 'Hermione'? It sounds like you're wheezing _, they'd say, and snigger, and Hermione had to pretend she didn't listen, even as tears welled up in the corners of her eyes._

_She thinks now: her name has always been a way for people to make fun of her. In a way, it's the most vulnerable part of her. Does she really want to offer it up to this stranger, even with his wide smile and sparkling eyes, as the first person she meets at uni? She decides against it._

_"It's Granger," she declares, and that does it: she feels Hermione being locked away into a corner of her, to be replaced by this cold, hardened, bisyllabic new woman who embodies all the confidence she wants to exude at uni. This is a new identity, and whether she likes it or doesn't, she hasn't yet decided— but she's come out with it, so all that is left is to make what she can from it._

_"Granger?" the redhead asks, raising his eyebrows._

_"Just Granger," she says hurriedly, turning faintly red as if embarrassed about it. Is she trying to make herself into something she's not? What's he going to think about it? Oh, God, this is just a new avenue to tease her on, isn't it—_

_"Granger," he interrupts her stream of thought, a more subdued smile playing along his lips. "Good name." He smiles encouragingly, as if sensing her insecurity about the new identity she's dubbed herself with, and stands up with his hands on his knees. "Well,_ Granger _, I'll see you around," he says again, stressing her name as if to give her confidence in it, and bounds back to his mates, waving the Frisbee up in the air as he shouts, "Neville, if you screw a throw up ONE MORE TIME...!"_

 _Granger watches him jog away curiously, and doesn't notice her stare is lingering until her book drops out of her hands again and startles her. She picks it back up and opens it on her knees, trying vainly to get lost in it as she spins her new identity over and over._ Granger _, she thinks, thinking it doesn't sound half bad._

_And, anyway, if she's not sure about it, there's always the fact that that red-haired stranger seemed to think it was cool._


	4. Chapter 4

So far, every single introduction had been a success. 

They'd gone in the order Harry's list had placed the names in, and Harry had gone with Granger to all of them to make sure he could serve as a bridge— he knew his friend had trouble making connections with those her age or younger, and he was happy to help her feel more comfortable until she felt more in her element.

First off had been Luna Lovegood, in her final year of a Bachelor's in Psychology. Just like Harry had forewarned, she was a bit eccentric, and the day of their meeting in question was no exception: she was wearing a necklace made of paperclips paired with a giraffe-stamped tee, but she was incredibly sweet to Granger and seemed positively elated at being asked to form a part of her project.

Neville Longbottom had been equally willing, though it had taken him a bit longer to agree to it, since he had tripped over his own desk no less than three times and kept trailing off to try to remember where he had left the sandwich he'd bought from one of the campus delis. 

Draco Malfoy had been more challenging: it was the only meeting where Harry had asked Granger to wait outside while he walked in first and talked to him. She didn't know what they'd said to each other, but when she walked into the room, Harry was stiffer than she usually saw him, bearing a scowl, but Draco was less snide than she remembered him. Counterintuitively, however, Granger felt less intimidated than in the presence of Harry's more cheerful friends: she didn't know how to deal with emotion as well as she did with pride, having a lot of it herself, so she found herself easing into a conversation with Draco with more fluidity than Harry would've anticipated. He seemed to take a liking to her (or at least, not such a loathing) because of her strong demeanor, because when they left the room with his agreement to participate, Harry told her: "That took much shorter than I expected."

She didn't have to ask Ginny too profusely: Harry had already filled her in on the project details, and all she was waiting for was Granger's formal invitation to participate. Granger quite liked Ginny: she also had a strong personality and didn't take lip from anyone, which would make for an interesting tone for her eventual part in the project.

They met Dean and Seamus together, since they'd caught Dean at the moment where Seamus was helping him prepare his sketches for digitalizing. They'd both treated Granger like an old friend, and she'd immediately warmed up to them, feeling strangely happy when she'd left the room with their agreement to participate. Harry was right, though: as the telling glances he kept shooting her throughout the introduction seemed to say, Dean and Seamus definitely seemed much closer than just two friends.

Everything, she thought, had gone splendidly— and, in fact, in the process, they'd found a few more participants for her project: Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, both Sociologists, who Harry also knew from secondary school and who seemed happy to do him a favor; and Blaise Zabini —whom Draco had actually redirected them to a few days after his own introduction—, a mathematician with a solemn expression and a rumbling deep voice, who had eyed them skeptically but agreed to be a part once he'd heard Draco had referred him to them.

"This is marvelous," said Granger, ticking one more name off the list as she and Harry exited Zabini's study, strolling through campus grounds on a violet afternoon. "We just have Ronald Weasley to go, and then we'll have a strong base for me to work off of! I was planning to go tomorrow at four, I've let the physics lab know I'll be dropping by—"

"Actually," interrupted Harry, combing a hand through his hair, "I can't tomorrow at four. I've got my first Introduction to Law class of the year from 3:30 to 5:00..."

"I'll reschedule," said Granger quickly, going white in the face, before realizing that the physics lab had been reticent enough to receive her notice the first time and would probably not take too kindly to a time change. Besides, her own schedule was packed around that time, she'd specially freed that slot... "No, wait— oh, Harry, can't _you_ reschedule?"

He raised a questioning eyebrow: "Reschedule, Hermione? It's my _first class_ of the year and these are first years, their schedules are probably a bit more hectic and they're still not used to them, it'd be a huge disrespect to my students to move it."

"You're right," grumbled Granger, reproaching herself for even asking him to do something that ridiculous. Then her face lit up as another way out popped into her mind: "Harry, I asked you for a physicist because we didn't have any hard mathematicians and now we've got Zabini, do you think we—?"

"Well, I suppose you could," said Harry, though his expression told Granger he wasn't too keen on the idea. "But quantum physics is really one of the most interesting fields you could approach, they're on the vanguard of most scientific developments lately. You're not one to shy away from something so academically interesting, are you?"

Granger had to admit he was right: as much as she dreaded doing the introduction by herself, she couldn't help but be captivated by the prospect of learning more about quantum physics. Harry seemed to sense her unease, because his face cracked into a grin again, and he said more jokingly: "And besides, you turned Ginny down for her brother the physicist, so now that you've made your bed you've got to lie in it—"

"Oh, be quiet," said Granger, but a laugh escaped her lips and the two friends smiled at each other— and Granger felt, seeing Harry beam at her with such trust in her, that maybe, _just maybe_ , she could do this one introduction on her own. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mild implied mention of past sexual abuse/harassment

The heavy door to the physics lab creaked open, and Granger had to steady herself by placing a hand to her chest as she prepared to go inside on her own. She hadn't done one of these introductions without Harry and was afraid of screwing it up in some way or another. She reminded herself, like a mantra, of Harry's encouraging words: "You're the most brilliant scholar this university has to offer, Hermione. Surely Dr. 'I-finished-my-PhD-at-25' can think of more challenging things than introducing herself to one of her friends' mates?"

He was right, and she knew it; nonetheless, she couldn't help but feel her heart rate pick up as the lab door now swung open and left her in full view of those inside it. The room was vast, tables like islands every few feet inside it. The equipment on the tables was unlike anything Hermione used in her work: there was a heavy-looking pendulum, a functioning water pump, a magnetometer, a set of magnets... Even though she knew, perfectly rationally, what all of this was used for, she couldn't help but feel as if those physicists were working on magic, from how difficult yet natural it all seemed to look.

Stationed at each table stood stern-looking scientists in white labcoats: they all looked rigidly down at their work, a concentration unlike Granger had ever witnessed, the women's hair held back in ponytails as tight as their postures seemed to be held. Her eyes swept the room, searching for a flash of red— and her stomach dropped when she noticed, instead, a flash of yellow.

And, even worse, when the flash of yellow swiveled around and the owner of the hair looked straight at her.

"Ah, Granger!" McLaggen bellowed, spreading his arms as a smug look took over his face, making sure all of the lab looked up to pay attention to him. "Come to see me finally, have you?"

Granger wanted to turn around and bolt for the door, but her feet seemed to be glued to the ground. Her experiences with McLaggen had been less than favorable, and she was less than thrilled that she hadn't managed to evade him on her visit to the lab. 

He swaggered toward her with a confident stride, placing a loud smack on her cheek when he reached her and grabbing her arm with his hand. She tried to pull away, wrinkling her nose at the unrequested kiss, but McLaggen's hunkish build ensured she stayed firmly in her place. She resorted to words: "Get off of me, McLaggen, it's not you I'm here to see..."

"Oh, sure it's not," he whispered, leaning so close to her she could feel his hot breath on her ear. "Just like you didn't want me during that party our second year, like you kept running but I _knew_ you wanted me to go after you—"

"Step off, won't you, McLaggen, you big arse?" an unfamiliar voice piped up, and McLaggen stiffened and pulled away from Granger. She opened her eyes again, which had been tightly scrunched to keep McLaggen from her field of vision, and looked at her savior: a tall, lanky redheaded man with blue eyes and a spattering of freckles. _That's Ronald_ , she thought, _he matches Harry's description perfectly..._

"I don't recall you being invited, Weasley," sneered McLaggen, but his grip on Hermione's arm loosened.

"That's because you don't recall a lot of things, you big git," said Ronald, stepping menacingly closer. McLaggen's grip loosened even further. "Like the fact that the lab's a quiet space so everyone can work. But you've made a point of announcing to the lab how great you want her to think you are, and now no one can concentrate. Kind of goes against lab rules, doesn't it?"

McLaggen's scowl intensified, drawing deeper lines across his face, and Weasley intervened again: "Besides, like she said, she's not here to see you."

"Who, then?" 

"Me, actually," said Weasley, puffing up his chest mockingly. "Bet you didn't see that coming, did ya, McLaggen, hottest number at uni going out with me? It's because of my magnetic personality and my striking good looks, y'know..." he rambled on, as if annoying McLaggen had suddenly become his strategy.

The tactic worked: frowning, McLaggen released Granger's arm with a jolt and gave Weasley a piercing, deathly look before storming back to his table. Weasley made an obscene gesture at his back and turned to Granger: "Sorry about that, I know I sounded like a misogynistic arse. But it's the only way to get him off..."

She nodded and gulped, taken aback by the whole exchange, and allowed him to guide her to a table in the corner, where he seemed to have been working before the whole commotion. Only when seated across him did she take full stock of his appearance: his labcoat was unbuttoned and, underneath, his shirt lopsided; he bore a couple days' stubble, as if he'd forgotten to shave, and his hair stuck up in random places. His workstation seemed to match his appearance: papers, materials, and equipment were splayed across the table, looking as if a hurricane had swept through them.

"So, Granger," he said, leaning back in his lab chair with a smile. "About this project?"

"Uh, yes," Granger said, clearing her throat, and composed herself, folding her hands in her lap. Her tone shifted, and now she fired at him in a diligent, commanding tone: "As I'm sure Harry told you, Dr. Shacklebolt, the University Head, has commissioned me to undertake a Linguistics project on behalf of the University's publicity department, where I'm supposed to document the different 'languages', so to say, different branches of scholars here use. That includes terminology, manners of speaking and writing, you know, the whole number. We needed a physicist, and Harry suggested you; I trust Harry's recommendation, so all that is left is for you to let me know whether you would like to be a part of it."

"Memorized that, haven't you," he quipped, and she was startled: he seemed to have seen right through her monologue, and she suddenly felt disarmed. "Of course I'll do it, I'd be thrilled!"

"Great," said Granger, racking her brain for where she possibly recognized that enthusiastic tone from. "Well, there will be an introductory informational meeting on Thursday afternoon in Bagshot Hall, Room 228, which Dr. Shacklebolt has agreed to lend us. You should be there to be a part of the project..." she trailed off as she neatly wrote down the information on one of her small contact cards for him, wondering whether this messy physicist who seemed to put her so on edge would misplace it.

"Granger, be honest with me" Weasley interrupted, and she was once again taken aback: none of her other interviewees had done anything but thank her beyond this point. "I wasn't your first option, wasn't I?"

Something about how those blue eyes seemed to latch onto hers compelled her to honesty, and she answered with a flush, looking down abashedly: "I have to confess you weren't," she said. "I wasn't even originally thinking of a physicist, to be honest, but Harry suggested you..."

"Good man," said Weasley, seeming to take no offense in her words and rather smiling even wider. "Listen, Granger, I know I wasn't what you planned for, but the way I see it, it's either me or that git McLaggen, isn't it?"

He gestured across the room with a jolt of his chin, and Granger turned her head to see McLaggen staring at them murderously, giving her a lewd wink when he caught her eye. She shuddered with disgust and turned her gaze back to Weasley, who, to her surprise, was holding out his hand to her.

"So, what do you say, eh, Granger? Are we in this?"

She looked into his eyes again, feeling another echo of familiarity reverberate around some unknown part of her brain, then reached out her hand as well and shook his firmly.


	6. Chapter 6

Granger had awoken with a start that morning, after a nightmare: what if no one showed up for today's introductory session? What if they were all in on a joke of some sort and would decide to laugh at her expense, making her and her project look ridiculous? And what would Dr. Shacklebolt say then?

However, as the afternoon rolled on and Granger found herself sitting at the front of Bagshot Hall room 228, Harry's friends streamed into the room happily, bidding her hello as they entered, and she realized how unfounded her worries had been. Of _course_ they'd come; Harry wouldn't have set her up for something so cruel. She recognized each face as it beamed at her: she'd always had a way with names, and she had committed those particular names to heart from hours upon hours of combing through the list.

She had already started marking some linguistic differences across scholarly communities: Luna, scarcely an undergrad, gave her a very proper "Good afternoon, Dr. Granger," whereas the postgrads were a lot more casual in their approach and often just offered up a "How's it going?". As the seats in front of her began to fill, she noticed a prominent absence: there was only one redhead watching her, waiting for the session to begin. Could it be that Weasley —the other Weasley, Ginny was just Ginny in her mind— had forgotten? She felt strangely disappointed: the only introduction she had braved on her own, gone through McLaggen for, and it had all been for nothing? However, as she began to lose hope, someone came stomping down the hall and skidded into the room: it was Weasley, still wearing a labcoat (which hung askew upon him) and with a playful smile that showed no bashfulness at his tardiness.

"Sorry I'm late," he offered up to the group, which was watching his entry as intently as Granger. He pointed to his eyebrows— which, Granger noticed, were singed: "Had a bit of an unexpected situation in the lab."

His greeting to her also differed, Granger noted, from that of the other postgrads: he chose no words, instead giving her a conspicuous wink. He ambled over to a space between Harry and Ginny in the front row, making a joking show of separating them (from Ginny's bored eyeroll, Granger deduced this was not the first time her brother had come between her and her boyfriend), exchanging a special handshake with Harry, and settling down in his seat by leaning back in his chair. 

Peeling her gaze away from Weasley, Granger cleared her throat and addressed the room in the same way she, no doubt, would do her students once her classes began: "Good afternoon, everyone, and thank you for being here! For those that don't yet know me, though we've all had the pleasure of a personal introduction, my name is Dr. Hermione Granger, and I'm a member of the Linguistics faculty whom Dr. Shacklebolt has tasked with this particular project."

She swept the room with her gaze, and faltered: did their unblinking expressions mean they were bored? Focused? Already critical? She turned to Harry for support: he caught her eye, gave her a smile, and with a thumbs-up mouthed "you got this". She gulped, took a deep breath, and readdressed the room: "As I've explained, this project focuses on how different groups within the University —be it undergrads or postgrads, STEM or Humanities specialists, athletes or non-athletes...— communicate and express themselves. This is an intersectional project, which is why I'm so thrilled that we have such a diversity of gender, interests, races, academic divisions, and..." she trailed off as she fixed her sight on Dean and Seamus, sitting together in the back right corner of the room: did she dare say 'sexual orientation'? Deciding against it (as a linguist, after all, who better than her knew the impact even just a couple words could have?), she continued: "I still haven't decided how exactly this is going to work, but you can expect at least one of these group meetings monthly, and some personal interviews in between. By personal interviews I mean both formal interviews and just casual conversation, which, as I'm sure you'll all expect, does a better job of actually revealing how you all talk."

The conversational aspect had been Harry's idea, since Granger had wanted to keep it formal. "C'mon, Hermione," he'd said, "do you actually talk the same in interviews as you do every day?" Remembering his friend's unusually formal manner of speech, he backtracked: "Okay, maybe you're not the best example for that, but trust me, Hermione, no one else does." She'd had to recognize he was right and had caved; still, the prospect of one-on-one conversations seemed daunting. Luckily, Harry had also come up with a solution for that, which Granger now explained as she continued talking to them.

"Conversations won't all just happen one-on-one— sometimes we'll have them in groups, maybe even between fields, just so I can see those specific linguistic differences in action and against each other. There isn't a schedule for these, but I'll let you know in advance." She breathed: she'd finished all she had prepared. "Any questions?"

She shouldn't have been surprised to see a pale hand go up in the front row: "Me," said Weasley, rocking his chair back and forth. "I have a question."

"Mr. Weasley?"

"Well, it's not so much a question as a comment _and_ a question, or a comment _linked_ to a question, but anyway, here goes— why are you so nervous? It's okay to relax a bit, we're not judging you; in fact, we all think you're brilliant." A murmur of assent rumbled through the room, and Luna, in the back row, gave Granger an agreeing smile. Granger felt the tension in her shoulders melt away slightly. "We wouldn't be here if we didn't think you're a bloody genius, and we're all dying to work with you, so it's okay to let yourself get, y'know, a bit more in your element."

Once again, he had disarmed her— but had it been for good? Mouth agape, Granger stared at him blankly for a couple of seconds before shaking her head and collecting herself. "Not really the sort of question I was looking for, Mr. Weasley, but very much appreciated." To her surprise, the room laughed. _They'd actually laughed!_ , she thought, looking around in surprise and her chest feeling warmer. She decided to try again, this time through a smile that had settled on her lips: "Alright, anyone else, any questions that are not necessarily about your researcher's insecurities?"

They laughed again! Granger's delight blossomed up in her chest, feeling the tension in the room and in her body start fading, and she turned to Weasley with a smile still on her face. He was smiling back knowingly. How is it that he'd managed to make her feel so comfortable in the space of just a few seconds? She whipped her head back around to see hands raising up, and, feeling warmed up, pointed at them diligently with the pedagogic flow she was only too comfortable in.

"Neville."

"Are we allowed to have relationships with other people in the study while it's going on? I don't mean, like—" he stuttered, watching the quizzical eyebrows raise around him, "—I just mean friendships, and such—"

"No, I'm keeping you all in the Linguistics Department's dungeon all year and you're only allowed to come out of your personal cell when I need to talk to you." They laughed, laughed wonderfully, again! "Of course you can, Neville, and it's even better if you do, since you'll show me what you're like around people you know, which is when we speak easiest and at our most natural... Zabini."

"Will there be a formal schedule," thundered a deep voice from the middle row, "or am I supposed to just take time out of my _busy_ schedule for some publicity deal?"

The room broke out in her defense: "Nobody's asking you to be here, Zabini," said Seamus coldly, and Ginny turned to gave him a death stare. But Granger didn't think he meant it snidely: like her, he was a busy scholar, and he was well on his way to his PhD. She understood his valid concerns with his schedule: "Don't worry, Blaise," she said, her familiar tone surprising even her, "I'll let everyone know in advance and I'm more than happy to adapt to _your_ schedule. I know all of you have things to do, and the last thing I would want is to infringe upon your time. Dean..."

She continued answering questions in the rapid-fire style she was so accustomed to and so good at, but as she did it almost automatically (though feeling, thanks to Weasley, a lot more comfortable and a lot more welcomed), she noticed only one person wasn't speaking up and didn't seem to be in tune with the room's chill atmosphere. Lavender Brown, Harry's sociologist acquaintance, sat beside her colleague Parvati, but unlike her, she wasn't chattering. She stared right at Granger between narrowed eyes, an unfriendly look souring her features. Her gaze kept darting back between Granger and someone in the first row. _Maybe it's Harry_ , Granger thought, _maybe she fancies Harry and she thinks I'm a threat— but that makes no sense, there's Ginny, and everyone knows about Harry and Ginny..._

In her train of thought about Harry and the impossibility of Lavender being mad because of him, Granger failed to notice that Lavender's eyes were not trailing between her and Harry, but between her and Weasley. She also didn't notice _why_ : Weasley stared at her as if she was the eighth wonder, a faraway look in his eyes and a calm smile stretched across his lips. There wasn't a hint of the giddy Ron Weasley he usually was: he was immersed in watching her be so passionate about something she was invested in, happy at having been able to bring it out in her. _Granger sure does look a lot prettier when she relaxes_ , he thought, _and that's saying something for someone so pretty to begin with_.

But Granger, absorbed in the flurry of questions her way, dismissed the thought of Lavender from her mind and continued answering, feeling a new passion for the project bloom inside of her, cracking through her initial reticence, at seeing how excited everyone else seemed to be.

"Alright, final question," she said when only one hand remained in the air. "Luna?"

"Thank you, Dr. Granger," she prefaced properly, and then her face opened up in a sunny grin: "When do we start?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions music by the Brit shoegazing band Lush, specifically their album 'Split'; I don't own that music or any content by the band. :) However, if you'd like to get a better feel for the latter half of this chapter, feel free to put on that album and listen along with Granger. ;)

"Well, that went better than expected, I bet," said Weasley without a hint of malice as everyone left the room. Granger lifted her eyes to meet his with a soft "hmm?" and found him, once again, smiling. "Good job, Granger," he said now earnestly, placing his hand on her shoulder and giving it a little squeeze. "I knew you'd kill it." And, with the smile fixed upon his lips, he once again winked at her as a way of saying goodbye and left the room. 

She felt her cheeks flush a little and brought a hand up to quell the warmth, a hint of a smile turning up the corner of her mouth. However, as she swiveled around and found an unfriendly Lavender Brown facing her, the smile faded just as quickly as it'd appeared.

"Dr. Granger," she said with a smile that more closely resembled a grimace, though there was no pleasantry in her voice. "I was hoping to catch you, actually, I still had some questions..."

"Hermione! Are you ready to go?" suddenly called Ginny from the door. Granger and Lavender turned their heads to face her, both equally surprised. Ginny shrugged apologetically at Lavender: "Sorry, Lav, but we'd agreed to go for coffee and I can't really be late, I have football practice later."

"Another time, then," said Lavender with the same saccharine sweetness, and left the room behind Parvati, who had lingered outside the room. 

Ginny kept the same passive expression until Lavender and Parvati had both disappeared from sight, and then turned to Granger with the fiery manner she associated more with Harry's girlfriend. "Sorry about that, I know we're not really on first-name terms, but you seemed uncomfortable, and I know Lavender can be a real nightmare." Granger gave her a puzzled look. "Ron's ex girlfriend," Ginny explained, in a tone that told Granger she wasn't very fond of her, "though I guess on-and-off would be a better term. They dated in secondary school, then broke up when they started uni, and dated again until a few months ago... I think she's trying to get him back, and she didn't like the way he was looking at you."

"Looking at me?" Granger said incredulously, and Ginny laughed openly, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, Hermione —it's okay if I call you Hermione, right?—, you may be a genius, but I think we just found the one thing you might be clueless at." She pulled away her arm from around Granger's shoulders hurriedly: "Oh, sorry, I know I can get too friendly too fast, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"No, it's really okay," Granger said reassuringly, and she meant it: something about Ginny made her feel comfortable and protected, even if Ginny was younger, and she felt as if she had a friend in her already. "And thank you for that, honestly. I didn't know what to do."

"No one does, she's a master at catching people off guard. She did it to me a bunch of times while she and Ron were broken up, trying to get me to talk about him," she said nonchalantly, and headed toward the door. She stopped under the door frame and pivoted to look at Granger again: "By the way, I know I only said the coffee thing to get you out of there, but I do actually have some free time before football practice, so, wanna go?"

"Sure!" Granger said, grabbing her bag. "Are we meeting Harry there?"

"No, just the two of us."

"Oh, I didn't think you'd want to get started on the project so soon—"

"Not for the project, silly, but because you seem cool and I'd like to get to know you better outside of 'that genius my boyfriend is friends with'," Ginny laughed again, and laced her arm with Granger's as she led her out of the room. "I'd like to be able to say I have a friend as brilliant as you."

Granger swung her bag around her shoulder and gave Ginny's arm a little squeeze, wondering what exactly it was about these Weasleys that made them do the unexpected in the best kind of way. 

Granger and Ginny strolled, arm in arm, chattering and laughing like a couple of old girlfriends, across campus, drawing stares from passersby. Ginny was used to the stares: she was confident and knew how good-looking she was, but to Granger stares had always meant scrutiny, so she was surprised when they seemed friendlier and curious rather than judgemental and mocking. Still, she couldn't help but take note of how mismatched they must seem: Granger, tottering along in her short heels, pencil skirt, and sky-blue blouse, her hair tightly clipped into a high bun; and Ginny —carefree, confident Ginny—, who donned a torn denim skirt, a pink Ramones t-shirt knotted at the belly button, worn brown combat boots, an armful of bangles, and her red hair cascading freely down her back. 

Finally, they stopped in front of a store marked Remembrall Records, and Ginny beamed excitedly at her, wiggling her eyebrows and making Granger laugh, and tugged her by the hand into the shop. If Ginny hadn't dragged her here, Granger thought, she doubted she would've visited this place: a grungy sound reverberated through the speakers spread sporadically around the store, and the air hung thick with a mixture of cigarette smoke and coffee scent. The cramped walls were stacked with vinyl records, each pristinely inside its sleeve, and at the left flank of the shop a glass door led to an open area where Granger spotted a cluster of small tables where people dressed in Ginny's style conversed lightly.

"Wotcher, Ginny," came a voice from beside them, and Granger turned to see a peppy-looking woman with a sharp bubblegum-pink bob grinning up at her. "Brought a friend?"

"Hiya, Tonks!" Ginny responded, gesturing to Granger, who smiled sheepishly at Tonks. "This is my friend, Dr. Hermione Granger."

"Oh, I know who you are!" said Tonks, clapping enthusiastically and seeming genuinely excited at having heard about her. "You're the 25-year-old PhD! You've brought us a star, eh, Gin? Might knock you down from being my favorite..."

"Hey, careful, Nymphadora, I'm the one who's been coming here since first year."

"Yeah, and just because you're a Masters student now doesn't mean you get to call me by my first name, so keep doing it and watch you keep falling down notches," Tonks joked, and she and Ginny laughed with a ripple of an old joke shared between them. 

"Hermione, this is Tonks," Ginny said now, as if that hadn't been made clear— but Tonks, clearly gleeful, gave Granger an excited little wave as if she'd only just seen her. "Coolest person on campus, who just so happens to run the coolest shop on campus."

"First time, huh?" Tonks said encouragingly.

Granger nodded: "Yeah, I can't say I would've dropped by if it weren't for Ginny here..."

"That's okay," Tonks gave a wave of her hand, taking no offense, "we're not the most mainstream, but I'm proud to say those who know us well love us and keep coming back. I hope to see you 'round here more often, y'know, it's always fun to get to know new ones. Welcome!" she exclaimed, and threw an arm around Granger's shoulders with the same affection Ginny had done earlier. Granger, though never much one for touch, had to admit she quite enjoyed how much these two women seemed to like her, and every spontaneous hug just made her feel more welcomed.

Tonks turned her around now, gesturing toward the record-stacked walls: "Tell you what: in honor of your first time at Remembrall, I'll let you pick what we listen to, alright?"

"You didn't let me pick when I came here first!" protested Ginny, catching up to them.

"Oh, cry me a river, Gin, you know as well as I do you waltzed in here and forced that Cream record onto the record player without asking anyone, so it's like you got the same thing, but without the niceties," Tonks rebuked her, and they both laughed again. Granger couldn't help but marvel the ease with which both women lashed back and forth at each other, and the fondness with which it all seemed to be infused. "So, Hermione? What will it be? All this is yours."

"Well, uh— I'm not really sure... do you happen to have some Chopin, by any chance?"

" _Chopin?"_ Tonks expleted, looking at her incredulously. "I mean, I can't say we do, but I can look..."

Sensing her mild deflation, Granger quickly rushed to correct herself: "I'm sorry, I mean— I don't really know a lot of modern bands, but I guess you could choose something you think I'll like?"

"On one condition," said Tonks, "that you come back here sometime and _you_ pick me an album you think I'll like. It can be classical or anything, but I'm not sure we carry those, so you'd have to bring it—"

"It's a deal," said Granger, and Tonks's eyes glittered as she tightened her hold around Granger's shoulders.

"That's the spirit! Now, something I think you'll like..." she let go of Granger and ambled toward a shelf toward the back of the shop, crouching to search in the bottom shelves. "Gin, any suggestions?"

"Try some Lush," said Ginny, turning to give Granger a smile. "Trust me, you'll like it."

"Great pick!" Tonks praised her, pulling out a red and blue record labeled 'Split' and heading toward the record player in the center of the shop. "Only the greatest shoegazing band ever, and some great girl power too, I'd pay Miki Berenyi to run me over, honestly, 'specially in her orange hair era, whew!..."

Ginny laughed and turned to Granger, who bore a curious expression. "'Shoegazing?'" she asked, her linguist side genuinely perplexed at a word she'd never heard before.

"It's a music genre, a derivate of alt rock," Ginny explained, and Granger had to pretend she wasn't struggling to make sense of the terms. "Got its name because the bands that played it used so many pedals in their live shows they kept looking down to keep pace with them, and spent the performances with their heads bowed."

Granger's linguist side was thrilled: "That's fascinating— a funny little word like 'shoegazing', and turns out it's literally composed, and here I was thinking it was some sort of out-of-the-box genre name—" She cut herself off there, but much to her surprise, Ginny didn't react the way most usually did when faced with her linguistic interjections, but rather grinned back at her.

"Oh, Hermione, you could do a whole project on genre names, honestly, just you wait 'til you hear about screamo."

Granger laughed, pleasantly flattered at Ginny's encouraging retort, and watched Tonks walk back to them as the grungy bass in the shop was replaced by an ethereal-sounding background and some— violins, were they?

"'Light from a Dead Star'!" Ginny clapped her hands once excitedly at what Granger assumed was the song name, and Tonks, fist bumping her, led them to the seating area outside the shop. A few minutes later, she was back with two frothy cups of a spiced-smelling tea.

"On the house," she winked as she set them down in front of Granger and Ginny, and went back into the shop swinging her hips to the beat of the drums now streaming through the speakers.

"What's this?" Granger looked down at her steaming mug inquisitively.

"Chai tea," Ginny replied, already taking a sip from her mug. Encouraged by Ginny's sated lip-smacking, Granger took a gulp from her mug too and felt her throat seize: it burned! Coughing, she downed the drink and watched Ginny laugh amicably at her through the tears that her coughing fit had brought to her eyes. "It takes some getting used to, but I promise you it's good. House specialty," she said, and took another sip. Granger mimicked her, more slowly this time, and found the burn quite pleasant now that she expected it. 

"You know, actually," she said, switching into her linguist teacher's tone, "the phrase 'chai tea' is a redundancy, since 'chai' is actually the Hindi word for 'tea', which is subsequently derived from the Chinese word 'cha', for tea as well."

"So," Ginny responded, and Granger was again pleasantly stricken by how she seemed not to be annoyed by her facts but rather interested in them, "you're telling me that if I say 'chai tea', I'm really just saying 'tea tea'?"

"Exactly!" Granger said, and they both broke into a laugh.

"I like you, Hermione," said Ginny, sipping from her mug again. "I like your off-the-cuff facts, too. Let's see what other items on Tonks's menu we can linguistically debunk, shall we?"

"Does this mean we'll come back?"

"Oh yes, a lot, and order something different every time, just so you can tell me more cool things about why their names are stupid."

Granger didn't recall a time where she'd felt more at ease with someone else: Ginny, who seemed so out-of-reach and intimidating to anyone who didn't know her or who viewed her as the football goddess she also was, had a way of making her feel not only comfortable but actively _proud_ in her own skin, and she liked the way she felt about herself when she was around her. She wanted to go out with Ginny like this a lot more, just spend afternoons as friends, and quietly hoped she felt the same way. Though, by Ginny's constant smiles and insinuations that she'd love to hang out with her more, Granger thought she had nothing to fear.

"Liking the album?" Ginny asked her, as an upbeat, heavy guitar riff blasted through the speakers.

"I have to admit, it's not what I'd usually listen to," Granger shrugged, and returned to her mug, which was now halfway empty. 

"That doesn't answer my question," tutted Ginny, raising her eyebrows and wagging a finger, but dropped the question as soon as the guitar faded and was replaced by a flowing bassline. "Actually, don't answer until after you listen to this," Ginny grinned, her eyes glinting, as a rapid drumroll appeared in the background of the bassline.

"What song is this?" Granger asked, furrowing her brow as she attempted to concentrate on the music.

"'Hypocrite'," was all Ginny said in response, closing her eyes and tapping her foot on the ground to the beat of the music.

And, as Granger listened, she noticed that a lot of the qualities she used to justify her taste in classical music were present here too. The sound enveloped them, just like a well-played orchestra would, making it easy to get lost in its acoustic richness; the instruments worked perfectly, both together and off each other, and it was possible to tell their individual nuances apart, just like a melody line would in any symphony; the rhythm didn't stay monotonous throughout the whole song, but rather sped up and dropped back to match the singer's voice, like a well-executed concerto's changes of pace; and the music seemed to dominate, uneclipsed by the singing, which Granger had used before as an argument as to why she wasn't a fan of music that highlighted the lyrics over the instrumental background. She found herself beginning to nod along with the music, and as Ginny beamed up at her, she realized that —like most of the things she and Ginny had done today that she'd never expected to be up her alley—, this may just be more like Hermione Granger than she'd originally thought.


	8. Chapter 8

Granger was up early the next morning: she'd finally devised a preliminary schedule to talk to the people involved in her project, and she wanted to get down to their mailboxes early on so they would see it that day for sure, even if she had queued up an email to each of them later in the day. She was already starting to pick apart individual patterns, as her intuitive nature determined: she knew Neville and Seamus were unlikely to check through their (overstuffed) mailboxes, so she'd queued up a second email for them and, if she hadn't received a response by the end of the day, she'd be texting them. She'd left Zabini and Draco's schedules blank, providing a copy of when she was meeting with other people so they could fit their schedules nicely with hers, as she knew they'd appreciate. And she'd made sure to book every meeting in advance for those she knew may forget when the date rolled around, like Neville and Harry (who was a great friend but could be pretty oblivious sometimes), so at least they wouldn't double book.

Like everything she did, it was a job well done.

The only one she hadn't managed to figure out exactly was Weasley: would he be the overstuffed mailbox and date-forgetful type, as his messy lab space and casual tardiness suggested, or would he be the space-needing, prompt and proper kind, as his attention to detail and encouragement of her might lead her to think? _I suppose I'll be figuring_ him _out along the way_ , she thought, strangely enticed by the prospect.

She exited her little flat near the Linguistics Department, a cramped four-room affair (bathroom, bedroom, living room, and kitchen/dining space) the University had helped her afford, in taupe flats, khaki slacks, and a light violet flowered blouse under a white cardigan. She strode determinedly around campus, dropping off her letters in the faculty mailboxes for those who were postgrads and the dorm front desk for those who were undergrads or whose mailboxes she couldn't find. When she was done, she crossed campus again back to the Linguistics Department. She bid the porter a good morning: he wasn't surprised to see her this early, being quite used to her frequent presence in the facilities.

Tracing her steps down the familiar route to what was now her office, she caught herself humming the bassline from 'Hypocrite', and smiled to herself: yesterday had been a day well spent with Ginny, and she was glad that some of Ginny was rubbing off on her, even if it was in something so simple as music.

She turned the last corner she knew would lead her to her office, key already in hand prepared to open the door— and jumped with a start when she saw Ronald Weasley beaming at her, leaning against her door, his hair still tousled into a bedhead he hadn't bothered to tame and a cardboard tray in his hand, holding two cups.

"Mornin'," he greeted her, his grin widening when he saw her coming toward him. He peeled his back from the door and stood upright, extending his arm to offer up the tray of coffee. "Early morning, so I figured we'd need caffeine. Well, at least I'd need caffeine. I didn't know what you'd like, so I brought you a chamomile tea— I know, kinda boring, but it was a safe option, so..."

Granger was getting used to his (actually somewhat endearing) penchant for chattering jokingly, but she was still taken aback: "What are you doing here?"

"Bringing you caffeine," Weasley replied as if it was obvious, his silly grin only widening.

"You're something else, you know that, Weasley?" Granger huffed as she moved past him and unlocked the door to her office.

"I'm taking that as a compliment," he replied, swinging inside her office before she had a chance to shut the door on him.

"I was going to wait inside for you, but I thought that might give you a heart attack. You did take me out of the dilemma, though, because I didn't consider the fact that Hermione Granger _obviously_ locks her office door."

"Yes, well, Hermione Granger likes keeping nosy physicists out of her office," she retorted, going to the back of the room to check whether any mail had come for her. When she turned back around, a couple of letters in her hand, Weasley had left the tray of drinks in a corner of her desk and was happily sitting on the desk center himself, swinging his legs over the edge.

"What are you doing?"

"Sitting," he responded, grinning childishly.

"Why are you here again, remind me?"

"For caffeine, I told you."

"That's not a valid—" she started, but realized that he'd have a mock argument with her about the validity of bringing her caffeine if she didn't accept it. "Okay, sure, but what else?"

"Well, I thought I could help you devise a strategy to talk to people."

"Thank you very much, but as you would know if you'd checked your faculty mailbox this morning rather than _invade my office_ , you'd know I already have a schedule and a system in place."

"No, I don't mean a system, I mean a _strategy_. Jesus, Granger, you're a linguist, you should know the difference between those words..."

Caught off guard, Granger gave him a blank stare for a couple of seconds, then shook her head, bewildered, and placed her hands on her hips: "Alright then, Weasley, I'll cave. Give me the strategy."

"Thought you'd never ask," he smiled, leaping off her desk and dusting off his hands. He walked up to her and stood right in front of her, imitating her pose. She realized now how tall he was: he towered at least a head over her, but yet she met his eyes defiantly. 

"See, Granger, this is what I mean," he said, accentuating the pose. "You can't just go up to people and place your hands on your hips like that and expect them not to feel scolded or on guard."

"I don't do it to _people_ ," she responded, stiffening her pose as well. "I only do it to obnoxious gits who think they can tell me how to do my job."

"Then it's a sure lucky thing you're not doing it to me, is it?" he raised a playful eyebrow, puffing his chest up. They stood there in silence for a few beats, almost comical, like two birds puffing their chests up and splaying their feathers to assert dominance. Finally, it was Granger who gave in, dropping her arms back by her sides before crossing them over her chest. Right as she dropped the pose, Weasley did as well, and returned to the usual laid-back gait Granger associated with him.

"Okay, in all seriousness," Weasley began, no hint of a joke in his voice, "I know you're not going to have problems with anyone because you're you, but I still couldn't help but notice how nervous you got yesterday. And you don't have to be nervous at all, like I said, you're brilliant; but, on the off chance that you do get nervous, there's a few things you can do to make sure you don't look it. 'Cause this whole thing is about getting people to talk, and people talk better when they're comfortable."

"You seem to talk a lot no matter how comfortable you do or don't feel," she grumbled, but had to admit he had a point: hadn't she herself opened up more easily to Ginny the day before when Ginny had made an effort to make her comfortable? And hadn't that felt wonderful?

"Yeah, well, maybe what you don't know is that I'm always comfortable around you," he smiled kindly, and then walked around her to stand behind her back.

"Okay, first order of business, you can't cross your arms like that. That's a closed position, you're closing up your body, and the best way to encourage someone to be open with you is to be open with them. Even if you're not being verbally open —I mean, you don't have to start telling them your childhood trauma or anything, at least not right off the bat—, if your posture looks open, it'll give that impression." She felt his arms wrap around her, his hands delicately seizing her arms and pulling them loose from their knot, placing them gently back at her sides. "And openness also means you're not hunched forward, you have to open your chest," he continued, and his hands now moved to her shoulders and gently pulled them back, her shoulderblades squeezing, to open up her stance.

What was he doing, moving her around like a doll? She had half a mind to spring from his hands and do the exact opposite of what he was suggesting, but she stayed in place— this did feel kind of nice.

"Next up is the head," he said, and she felt his hands nestle on either cheek, gently tilting her head toward her left just a few degrees. "If you stare straight at people with a super-straight neck— well, that's how serious adults usually talk, isn't it? And people don't talk the same when they feel like they're being inferiorized." He now came around her, back in front of her where she could see him, and placed a folded index and thumb under her chin, nudging it up just a little. "And your head should be a bit up. This way, with your head sorta to the side and raised, it always seems like you're listening, which makes people feel —duh— listened to, and if people feel listened to they'll keep talking."

He was closer now than he'd been, almost letting her feel the soft draft of his breath as he pulled it in and out, their faces merely inches apart. "And you have to smile," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "not just because it feels friendly, but because you look so pretty doing it."

Granger felt a slight flush creep onto her cheeks and, even reluctantly, the corners of her mouth started turning up. Their faces hung close together, his hand still lightly gripping her chin, almost as if he was going to pull her in and...

"And that," Weasley broke the moment, letting his hand leave her chin and pulling back from her, "is how you manage to look like you're in your element even when you're paralyzingly nervous."

Granger stood silent for a few more instants, still rippling with the proximity they'd just drawn away from and she thought would culminate in a... She collected herself and cleared her throat: "Thank you, Weasley," she said, genuinely feeling the openness in her position. "I'll definitely keep this in mind."

"See? And here you thought I was coming in to talk about _schedules,_ " he snorted, and picked up his cup from the cardboard tray still on Granger's desk. "Better drink that soon, Granger, don't want it to get cold, tea tastes like sock water when it's cold." He made for the door, stopping to look at her when he was almost out. "Guess I'll see you around," he said with a smile, and gave her another one of those winks as he left the office.

Frozen in place, Granger lingered a few moments still where he had left her, slowly bringing her hand up to her face and resting it on her chin, where he had touched her, the last vestiges of his warmth cupped under her hand.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mentions of drunkenness

As they heard the little bell over the door of the Three Broomsticks ring out, Harry, Neville, Dean, and Ginny all raised their heads in unison, watching Ron as he came in and plopped down in one of the two free chairs at their table.

"So, no Granger?" Dean said teasingly, and Ron's normally cheerful face wrinkled into a passing scowl. "I'm going to take that as a no."

"Chickened out, did you?" Ginny joined in, poking his arm, and he yanked it away, closing his hand around the cardboard coffee cup he still held in his hand. "Oh my god, you even got her coffee from Puddifoot's—"

"Shut up, shut up, I don't wanna hear it, Harry said she liked that place!" Ron burst, clapping his hands over his ears to the table's general laughter.

"Hey, that's where we usually meet up," Harry said, smiling at his best mate and swirling his juice around with a straw. "What did you get her?"

"Chamomile tea," Ron mumbled sheepishly, and the table burst out into a groan.

"C'mon, Ron, that's the least romantic thing you could've gotten! It's so generic!"

"It may surprise you to hear it, Ginny, but despite being good at everything, I'm actually no tea expert," Ron said, and brought his cardboard cup to his lips. He grimaced: "Jesus, Harry, no wonder you like that place, their coffee is _wa_ _y_ too sweet, and keep in mind I ordered mine black—"

"So stop being a baby and order another one," Ginny shrugged, swiping the cup from her brother and having a taste from it. She also grimaced: "Oh, god, what does she put in these, watered-down syrup?"

"I like it," Harry muttered as Ron waved a strongly-built waitress with curly straw-blonde hair to their table.

"Hi, Rosmerta, good morning— would you mind getting me a real cup of coffee, please?"

"Sure thing," Rosmerta replied, eyeing the pink cardboard cup with something resembling disgust. "No wonder you need a real one if you went to Puddifoot's..." she commented as she walked away toward the kitchen.

"Is she judging me? I feel like she's judging me," commented Ron, leaning over the table and looking around his friends.

"She may not be judging you, but we are: how do you wake up _so early_ in the morning _just_ to ask Hermione if she'd like to come to breakfast with us, and _fail_ at the one thing you've been gearing up to do since last night?" Ginny asked, pushing the Puddifoot cup away from her and folding her arms.

"On first-name terms with her, aren't we..." Ron started, leaning back again to match Ginny's pose.

"Answer my question, Ronald."

"Alright, alright, you're right, I backed out," sighed Ron, and the table erupted in hoots and whistles again, punctuated with the occasional 'come on, Ron!'. "But, in my defense, none of you prepared me for the off-chance she'd be wearing a _lilac_ blouse, and the thing was almost see-through—"

"You're disgusting," Ginny complained, swatting him with a napkin.

"Yeah, I sound like McLaggen," Ron snickered, looking to Harry to laugh with him, but finding instead a table in silence. Apparently, the name 'McLaggen' had hit upon something. "Well, what is it?"

"So she doesn't remember, does she?" Neville asked quietly, his round eyes widening with the reach of his question.

"No, I don't think she does," Ron sighed, dropping the impish pretense. "But I'm not exactly going to come out and ask her, right? I mean, if I'm building up trust here, I can't come out and just push her to reprise it."

"I'd say that's a wise choice," Dean opined.

"Yeah, since when have you ever been one to bestow your wisdom upon us, huh, Thomas?" joked Ron to steer the conversation away from the night they all refused to mention, and was relieved when they all laughed again.

"You know who _does_ remember, though?" Dean picked up again, and nudged with his head toward the window of the Three Broomsticks, where an unknowing Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were beginning to appear. "Lavender does."

"Remembers what?" Ron asked. In the window, Lavender seemed to realize he was in there, because she stopped in her tracks, looked into the shop, and gave him a flirty little wave with her hand when she caught his eye. She then walked away with Parvati, adjusting her hair and looking back over her shoulder to catch a second glimpse of him.

Ron was confused— why was she acting this way? What was he supposed to remember? All of a sudden, something clicked, and he let his head collapse down onto the table with a groan: "Oh, god, don't tell me it happened again."

"It didn't _happen_ , Ron," Ginny scolded him as the boys at the table whistled teasingly. "More like you did it."

The boys quieted down now, and an awkward silence hung over the table, Ginny and Ron's gazes locked defiantly in the way only siblings' can, until Ron finally caved: "Alright, so is anyone going to tell me what happened, or am I just supposed to piece it together myself?"

"Oh, I'll do it!" Neville jerked his hand upward, almost knocking over Ginny's glass of juice, which she darted a hand outward to salvage. Neville issued a few apologies to Ginny before clearing his throat and beginning in a mock dramatic tone: "'Twas the night before the start of term, and all through the campus, not a creature was stirring, not even—"

"Okay, just come out and say it, I can't put up with this... this _jester_ telling it," Ron groaned again, and the table laughed. Ron looked to Harry imploringly, knowing if he could count on anyone to help him out with this, it was his best mate. Harry caught his gaze and, in the way only best friends can, got the gist immediately.

"I'll break it to you simple, mate: before term started last week, you remember that mixer at Katie Bell's place, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah, with the premed undergrads that showed up in their brand-new doctor's coats—"

"Let him talk, will you?" Ginny gave him a look that told him _he_ had something to do with the most embarrassing part of this story, not the overeager first years who had thought Katie Bell's mixer would be a professional affair.

Harry continued: "Well, Katie got out that really huge keg and you did a couple of keg stands—"

"Did I win?"

"Quit interrupting me, will you? But yes, for your information, no one beat you, though McLaggen went purple in the face trying, Katie's still thinking of a prize for you... Okay, I'm getting sidetracked. The thing is, you got wasted, like, _really_ drunk."

"It's the price I paid for victory," Ron shrugged, failing to see the big deal just yet— he didn't drink so heavily very often, so when he did, it was only natural he'd have blanks in his memory, right?

"But at what cost?" Neville interjected dramatically, eliciting a fit of giggles from Dean.

Harry shot them both an annoyed look and resumed: "And you found Lavender— or, well Lavender found you."

" _Oh_ ," Ron let out, feeling his stomach sink: he was beginning to see where this was going.

Harry scratched the back of his head, as if bracing himself to go on: "And, well, you said some things..."

Ginny couldn't take Harry's pacing anymore: "You said you were very happy to see her, and how come you guys never got together again, and how you should totally hang out more often, and basically led her on for a good hour or so. I can't say she wasn't thrilled, honestly, but then you spent the last half hour or so before I dragged you from the party _snogging_ her. So no wonder she's so pissed, because she took all your drunk nonsense to heart, and now you're pining after Granger and pretending like it didn't happen."

"I'm not _pretending_ ," Ron defended himself, "because I didn't even know what happened—"

"The point is," Ginny cut him off, "you were a real arse to her, and so you need to step up and talk to her and tell her that you don't want anything anymore. Especially not considering the way she's been talking about Hermione behind her back, just because you can't keep your eyeballs from goggling every time she's around. And Hermione doesn't deserve to be dragged through the mud just because _someone_ can't keep it in his pants—"

"Okay, I get it, I get the idea!" Ron shouted, his eyes closed tightly as if somehow that'd keep him from further realizing his mistake. "Now, can we _please_ just sit down and have some breakfast? I have to put up with McLaggen for a few hours in the lab this morning, and I can't do that on an empty stomach."

A mumble of assent rippled through the table. " _Thank you_ ," Ron sighed, rolling his eyes, happy to close the whole subject.

However, as Rosmerta brought him his coffee and his usual plate of eggs and beans on toast, he couldn't help but feel guilt twisting his stomach: if Ginny was right, and Lavender was taking up her old gossipy ways with Granger, then he was seriously hurting her before he'd even had a chance to restart their story.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains some profanity, and future ones may as well :)

After finishing a filling breakfast with his friends, Weasley headed toward the physics lab, walking through campus happily. The clear morning forecast a good day, and as he pushed open the heavy door to the physics lab, he continued to feel optimistic about the day. Maybe he'd cross paths with Granger later in the day, and then he'd finally well up the courage to invite her to spend time with him— but, whatever Ginny, said, he thought it was pretty understandable that the urgency of asking her to breakfast had dissolved with the touch of his hands on her soft skin.

However, his train of wishful thinking was interrupted when Michael Corner, a fellow physicist and the only lab mate he really got along with, came up to him with a small envelope in his hand:

"Hiya, Ron," he said, handing him the envelope. It reeked of perfume, Weasley noticed, and wrinkled his nose as he turned it in his hand. "This came for you. Some chick named something Brown, dropped it off and asked me to give it. She asked me whether you'd be long so she could talk to you, but I said I didn't know when you'd swing by, so I offered to deliver a note for her instead."

"Good man," Ron said, shuddering to think about how little he would've liked to be face to face with Lavender so early in the morning. "So she didn't have this note ready?"

"No, she straight up pulled out the envelope and the note and scribbled it here. She came prepared, that I'll tell you," laughed Corner as Ron ripped the envelope open and pulled out the note.

> Ronnie,
> 
> It was so nice to see yesterday at Granger's session! I know you're busy (that's my little physicist) but I would love for you to take me out sometime soon— especially after Katie Bell's party, where your sister cut our time short, but I'd love to keep going. ;) 
> 
> Anyway, call me?
> 
> XX,
> 
> Lav

At the bottom of the little note, a phone number was etched with precision, and there was something resembling a lipstick kiss at the bottom right corner.

"She kissed it?" Weasley asked, turning to Corner. "And you thought you'd leave that out when telling me about how she wrote it here?"

"Thought that was something for you to find out, _Ronnie_ ," Corner teased him, and Weasley swatted him with the envelope. Ron crumpled the note and stuck it into his pocket, and he and Corner went to the coathook next to the door, where they both pulled on their labcoats. "Anyway, the real question is, who uses text emojis _in a written letter_? You could just draw the winky face yourself..."

But Weasley wasn't listening anymore: when he'd looked over at his table in the corner, the usual jumble on top of it was much smaller than he recalled. And that wasn't good because under the mess were—

"My samples," he said quietly, the full weight of the implication on him. "My samples are missing."

He left Corner badmouthing Lavender by himself, traipsing through the lab tables to make his way to his. When he got there, he realized his fears were true: right where he'd left a few closed samples, for which he'd sacrificed his eyebrows yesterday, was an empty spot. 

His heart caved inward with hopelessness— and then he heard someone snickering. He jerked his head upward, almost instinctively, and found McLaggen smirking at him smugly. "Looking for something, Weasley?" he asked in mock concern, and the rest of his table snickered along with him.

"It's not funny, McLaggen," said Weasley coldly, resisting the urge to go up to him and sink his fist in his face. "Give me back my samples."

"Who says I took them?" McLaggen said, feigning an ignorant expression and causing his companions to laugh even harder. 

"Give it a rest, McLaggen, we're not schoolboys and you don't have to bully me. I'll ask you again: where are my samples?"

"Like you'd know, Weasley, with the mess on your table, I'm surprised you can even find your own head some mornings," remarked one of the other scientists at the table. Weasley knew him well: Zacharias Smith, McLaggen's foremost crony, and a pompous arse he'd never much liked. 

"I wasn't talking to you, Smith," Weasley snarled, and Smith fell quiet. He turned now to McLaggen, walking up toward him: "Last time: where are my samples?"

McLaggen walked up to him as well, his hunkish build a stark contrast against Weasley's lankiness. "I said I don't know, Weasley," he said sardonically, "but even if I did, and even if I'd taken them, what are you gonna do about it, huh? File a complaint against me? Tell Professor Sinistra? Bear in mind it's your word against mine, and I'm not sure they'll be inclined to believe you when you have such a reputation for disaster. All I have to say in my defense is that you probably misplaced them in that garbage pile you call your workstation, and that you're probably just accusing me because you don't want to take responsibility for your own lack of order. Who's not going to believe me, huh?"

Weasley stayed silent, seething, feeling his ears burn with anger as he turned red. The worst part was that McLaggen had a point: he was certain his samples missing wasn't accidental, but no one was going to take his word for it. Professor Sinistra was already mad at him for misplacing a file she'd asked him to turn in, and he knew his lack of organization was well-known (and well-loathed) in the department. So he stayed silent, keeping his murderous glare on McLaggen, until the latter smirked again and gave him a condescending pat on the shoulder.

"That's what I thought," he said softly, venomously, as he returned to his own table, where his own cronies were jeering at Weasley.

Weasley pivoted around and stormed back to his work table, white-hot with rage. _He's done all of this to screw me over_ , he kept thinking, _he knows Professor Sinistra isn't happy with me and she's going to lose it when she hears about the samples. This is what this is about, isn't it, he wants to get me kicked off the PhD program, and the way it's going, he definitely has a shot—_

"You alright, mate?" Corner said, patting his back as he arrived to his table. Weasley could only shake his head, and was surprised to find hot, angry tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. "Ah, ignore him," Corner said, interpreting his silence well. "He's a big git and he's only out to get you because he knows if he didn't you'd be miles ahead of him."

"Stupid bugger," Weasley muttered, picking through the mess on his desk. He was going to sort it out now, if only out of spite, because he wasn't going to let McLaggen corner him like this again. "Stupid, bloody arsehole, he thinks he's so much better than everyone, he thinks he can run me over, well, I'll show him—"

All of a sudden, he collapsed onto his stool and buried his face in his hands, trying to keep the stinging tears from flowing. And here he thought this was going to be a good day.

"It's okay," Corner said, giving him a few awkward pats on the back. "We'll re-test the samples today, I have a free lab morning. I'll give you a hand so Sinistra doesn't come down too hard on you."

"Thanks, Corner," Weasley said, looking up to smile at the kind physicist.

"And I meant it, Ron, don't let them get to you just because they're half the physicists you are—"

"Now you're just buttering me up," answered Weasley, pulling his usual defensive shield up around him: humor. "But don't think getting on my good side means I'm gonna be okay with you dating my sister again."

Corner mumbled something like 'she's with Potter now' but turned red nonetheless, turning his back on Weasley with the pretense of finding the materials they'd need to recollect samples.

Weasley got up to join him, but he took a moment to steady himself, still shaken. He closed his eyes and remained on his stool, trying to keep the shakes of anger from racking his body. _And I thought this would be a good day_ , he thought, _fat chance. First I fuck up with Granger, then McLaggen fucks me over_ — He interrupted himself with stern discipline. To keep scolding himself in his mind would only make him feel worse.

Instead, he turned to more pleasant thoughts, and wasn't surprised when it was Granger who entered his mind. Granger, and how he'd had his arms practically wrapped around her this morning. Granger, and how he'd had his fingertips on her delicate skin, how she'd allowed him to shift her head slowly to a side. Granger, and how she'd given him a smile —her smile, just for him— for the first time. Granger, and how their faces had been so close, how their noses had almost touched, how he'd felt her soft breath on his lips and had to resist the urge to just lean in and kiss her...

And, with the memory of Granger's touch imprinted upon his brain, Weasley hoisted himself up and joined Corner in collecting the materials to try again with the samples.


	11. Chapter 11

Dr. Shacklebolt paged through Granger's files as she anxiously teetered on the edge of her chair, trying to discern a reaction or expression from his impassive features. She'd just handed him the preliminary outline of her research plan, including the profiles of those involved in her investigation, and where she planned to take it. Eager to please as always, she hung on a pending thread, waiting for him to deliver judgment on her work so far (and, as always, expecting the worst). Shacklebolt's silence, punctuated only by the sound of his fingers turning the pages, was not helping.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Shacklebolt set the file aside and raised his gaze to meet hers again. "Good, Dr. Granger, very good," he gave her a small reassuring smile, and Granger found herself breathing more easily, her shoulders dropping forward slightly, no longer held taut by tension. "Just as I expected from you, a very strong starting point."

"Starting point?" said Granger, confused. What did he mean 'starting point'? She'd just given him the plan for the entire project!

"Well, yes— I'm assuming this is only the initial database? It is, if you will let me say so, really quite small."

"Oh— well, how much larger would you like it to be?"

"Ideally, to include several dozen people from each division, and to integrate them all into a comprehensive scheme."

Granger, who was really quite proud of the work she'd done (even in spite of her initial reticence), rose up in defense of it: "Dr. Shacklebolt, I don't mean to offend you, but I would much prefer to keep my database as reduced as it is. If I may offer my two cents, I think Linguistics as a discipline is nothing without depth, and I think expanding my database so much would mean forfeiting the opportunity to develop profound information."

"So you'd like to keep a reduced database, just because it'll allow you to deepen the extent of interaction with each subject?"

Granger thought about a couple days ago at Remembrall Records, where she'd felt so natural and welcome with Ginny. She wouldn't have had that opportunity had it not been because Ginny was part of a select group of study subjects, and if she expanded her database as much as Shacklebolt would like, she wouldn't have enough time to hang out with her so much anymore, much less for things outside the project. _This_ , she realized with a hint of sad hopefulness, _might be my best way to finally make some more friends_.

So, her mind still on Ginny and how much she'd like to get to know others the way she had the young redhead, she once again defended her project: "I know it's not the most conventional methodology, but I think if you really want to give prospective students an opportunity to learn what the University is all about, we need to go for deep rather than many."

Shacklebolt pondered this for a few instants, and Granger thought, not without dismay, that he was about to just call the project off entirely. For the first time, however, she wasn't afraid that he'd be disappointed in her so much as that he'd end the project and, with it, her reasonable excuses to see the people she hoped would become her friends. The silence pervaded for what seemed like an eternity.

"All right, Dr. Granger," he finally announced, and Granger once again felt herself sighing in relief. "I trust your work and I trust your reasons. But I'd still like you to go have a talk with the PR department, since this isn't what they were expecting, so you can put them up to date with the development of the project."

"Perfect," said Granger, perking up: it wouldn't be a challenge to win over the PR department, considering how easily she got along with those older than her and how charming they found her. "I'll do that as soon as possible."

"Splendid. You should go directly to the Head of PR— here, I'll give you her card," he said, pulling out his wallet and extracting a small square of light lime-colored canvas paper. Granger took it and, without even glancing at it, placed it hurriedly inside her own wallet. "Let me know when you've been in contact with her, okay? She can be a bit... _intense_ , shall we say, but I have no doubts you'll manage."

"I will, Dr. Shacklebolt," Granger nodded, taking that as her cue to leave and rising to shake Shacklebolt's hand and step out of his office.

"Marvelous, Dr. Granger. This may not be what we were looking for, but I have full confidence in you."

* * *

Draco was holed up in the library, where he sometimes liked to go when he had a bit of spare time. He needed to disconnect from the lab and its demands every so often, and coming to a place filled with the musk of old paper and fading leather bindings, where he could nest into a worn armchair and bury himself in fictional preoccupations, was immensely relaxing. He didn't read anything academic when he came here: he usually nicked a book from the classical literature section and lost himself between its pages for a few hours. When he was tired, he stuck it back in its place: chances were, come the next time he visited, it'd still be there and he could pick up where he'd left off. It didn't matter that he didn't always know when he'd be back, because if there was one thing Draco Malfoy prided himself on, it was his excellent memory.

But today, as he was trying to immerse himself in the second part of _Crime and Punishment_ , a set of unfamiliar sounds bubbled toward his ears, sounds he didn't usually associate with the library. Someone was complaining about something under their breath. He heard the thump of a bookbag being dropped onto a table near the two shelves between which he was hidden, the metallic clink signaling a laptop being opened, and a flurry of fast, strong typing— someone was angry.

He looked at the page he was on —138—, committed it to memory, and closed the book with a soft thump, placing it on the armchair. He rose and peered around the bookshelf's corner, and there he saw her: it was Granger herself, seated in front of her computer and clacking angrily at its keyboard, mumbling something that sounded like "Shacklebolt... not good enough... not what they expected... go talk to PR..."

"I assume you have some sort of issue with Shacklebolt?" he said in his cold drawl, and Granger jumped in her seat, closing the laptop in her surprise. She swiveled around to face him.

"Jesus, Malfoy, you scared me."

"Yes, well, I guess when you come to the library to vent about problems with your superiors you don't really expect some chemist to be eavesdropping," he said, slipping into the chair in front of her without being asked to. But Draco Malfoy had never been one to need an explicit invitation.

Granger didn't object; instead, she sighed and reopened her laptop. "He doesn't like where I'm taking the project. He didn't say it, but I could sense it."

"And it's bothering you." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, it's bothering me," Granger chuckled dryly. "So much, in fact, that I came here to plan my first lecture for tomorrow, and I can't seem to focus on anything but what Shacklebolt said."

"Oh, lectures," huffed Draco, blowing air out of the corner of his mouth. "I wish teaching didn't have to be a postgraduate requirement. I always find those so dull, and undergrads so..."

"Tell me about it," Granger sighed, to his surprise, giving up on her laptop and shutting it again. "We start the first lecture with the basics of semantics, and there's always that one kid who raises their hand and asks when we're starting Latin... The answer is _not now_ , Joshua, right now we're looking at semantics and this is going to be on your final, so stop worrying about when we get to what movies told you Linguistics was and take notes—"

She cut herself off again, noticing herself venting in the ramble she tended to fall into and other people usually found annoying, but Draco only laughed. "You should try teaching one of my classes," he said, a faint smile playing at his lips. "We're reviewing stoichiometry, and some kid asks when we're getting to the lab. Listen, _Stacey_ , I don't trust you with chemicals until you've learned how they work properly, and seeing as you're not paying attention to the stoichiometric bases, I doubt that'll happen very soon."

They both shared a brief laugh, and Granger felt some of her frustration ebb. "God, I'm so glad you get me," she told him. "I feel like such a terrible person when I'm around Harry, just because he loves teaching with such a passion and I'd much rather just spend my time on my own research."

"Well, that's always been Potter, I suppose, he's always gotten a kick from other people thinking he's so great, and remember how we idolized our professors when we were undergrads," Draco said more coldly now, picking at one of his fingernails absentmindedly, but Granger noticed the mood had clouded noticeably.

To mend things, she put her hand forth across the table, touching his elbow with her fingertips, and smiled at him: "Well, I guess I'm just glad I'm not the only one who feels bad about not being a shining, saintly star of an academic."

Draco gave her a small smile in return: "I suppose you're right."

Granger drew her hand away, and silence hung over the two of them for a few more seconds until Draco interjected again.

"So when are you going to talk to me, Granger?" he said bluntly, and she opened her eyes in surprise at his question. "You seem like a fascinating person, and we seem to have a lot more in common than even I could've anticipated. And, let's be frank, we both look like we could use more friends," he smirked lightly, and disappeared behind the bookshelf again before she had a chance to respond.

As he retreated into his armchair again, opening _Crime and Punishment_ to where he'd left off, he swore he could feel a warm smile directed at him from across the rows of books.

* * *

Granger left the library contentedly, carrying an armful of books, still spinning the conversation with Draco around in her mind. _I was right_ , she thought triumphantly, hailing back to her meeting with Shacklebolt, _going for depth over quantity is really going to help me make some friends._ At the word 'friend', she smiled: she would've never taken Malfoy for someone she could be friendly with, considering how acridly Harry usually spoke about him, but their shared contempt for forced interaction and love for pure academics might make him, more than merely a friend, even an ally. And when she was surrounded by people like Harry and Ginny, who were absolute sweethearts but who made her feel bad for not wearing her heart on her sleeve or relishing interaction like they did, she needed someone who understood her need to pull back sometimes.

So absorbed was she in her thoughts that she was knocked off her feet when a big mass collided with her, sending her books sprawling across the pavement and leaving her seated on it.

"Neville, I told you not to throw the Frisbee while on walkways, for fuck's sake!" the mass called, and then spun around to look at her. She shouldn't have been surprised when she was met with the sight of a tall, lean redhead in a badly buttoned shirt. "Granger!" Weasley called elatedly, helping her to her feet. "So sorry, I didn't see where I was going, but Neville _still_ can't figure out for the life of him that he's absolute shit at Frisbee, and he's more than capable of beheading someone with that thing."

He bent over to help her pick up her books, depositing in her arms and sighing at her frown. "Oh, come on, Granger, don't be mad at me, I said I was sorry."

"Just watch where you're going, Weasley," she said, tilting her nose up and looking away. She stepped around him and began walking away, her books firmly clutched to her chest.

"When are you going to go out with me, Granger?" he heard Weasley call behind her back, and she could all but see the grin that must be plastered across his face that very second.

She planted her feet, pivoted around, and fulminated him with a piercing look: "In your dreams, Weasley!"

Holding her books tighter, she walked away, brimming with annoyance at Weasley— but unable to shake the growing familiarity, that had bloomed all of a sudden when they'd collided, that it all reminded her an awful lot of something that she couldn't quite remember.


	12. Chapter 12

It was a sunny afternoon on campus, one of those that seems to stretch forth into the horizon with golden sunlight, and Granger was where she would least expect to be: seated on the collapsible metal risers by the football pitch, Dean and Seamus on either side of her a level down, as she waited for Harry and Ginny to finish football practice so she could have a project-related conversation with them after. Today, the boys' team was scrimmaging the girls', and Harry, star midfield, was facing off against his star-striker girlfriend. In the sidelines, Dean was bent over a piece of grid paper, sketching out an outline for a columned porch, and Seamus was leaning back relaxedly, munching through a sandwich. And, Granger noted pleasedly, there seemed to be not a hint of awkwardness in the silence between them, just genuine comfort. She supposed she owed it to how easygoing Dean and Seamus were— but, still, it was much appreciated.

"I thought you played football, Dean, Seamus?" Granger asked, when curiosity merely deposited the question in her mind.

"Oh, I do," said Dean, furiously rubbing at his sketch with the eraser end of his pencil (which, Granger noticed, was getting smaller). "I'm just taking a term off to finalize my portfolio. I'll go to practice sometimes, just to be with the lads and all, but I can't commit to playing full-time just now. And Seamus doesn't know whether he wants to be back on the team this term."

"That seems wise," Granger remarked, and the comfortable silence once again spread between them, marked only by Seamus's rhythmic chewing.

Granger used the silence to allow her gaze to sweep the football pitch. She wasn't very much inclined to sports, so to be out here was —like many things she had encountered already during this project— a new experience. Ginny was easiest to locate on the pitch: she was a lightning bolt in a blur of red hair, zigzagging skillfully around the legs of the boys' defenders. Harry was equally easy to spot: head-to-head with Ginny, he guarded his side of the pitch zealously, his eyes fixated on the ball wherever on the pitch it rolled. Granger smiled softly looking at her friends, and even ventured into a small cheer when Ginny made way for the boys' goal—

And then he stopped it.

A redheaded goalie, shaking his wild hair out of his eyes, blocked Ginny's shot and kicked the ball back into play, blowing a raspberry at Ginny to rub in the missed shot.

"Weasley plays soccer?"

"Hm?" said Dean, looking up from his sketch and then continuing offhandedly when he caught a glance of Weasley. "Yeah, he plays goalie, he's really good."

"That is, when he's not nervous," Seamus chimed in. "He's on his best game right now because it's a friendly game. Once the pressure's on, it's anyone's game."

"But he is really good," Dean defended him. "In fact, he beat out McLaggen for the same position and he keeps beating him at tryouts every year."

"Betcha that doesn't make things any better," commented Seamus, and he and Dean snickered.

Granger had lost the thread of the conversation: "I'm sorry, made things any better? What do you mean it didn't make things any better?"

"Well, they hate each other, haven't you seen?" Seamus said, finishing his sandwich and crunching its tinfoil wrap into a small ball in the palm of his hand.

Granger recalled that day where she'd sought out Weasley in the lab: McLaggen had been an arse to him, sure, but that was because McLaggen was an arse to everyone, and he probably hadn't liked that Weasley had stepped in to rescue her from him.

"They hate each other?"

"Always have— well, ever since that party in second year—" Seamus suddenly cut himself off, and this time the silence between them hung with tension.

"What about that party?" Granger asked cautiously, sensing that this had somehow struck a nerve.

"I don't think that's for us to say," said Dean quickly, clearing his throat and pretending to really be focusing on the sketch before him.

"No, really, what about it?" she said again, a hint of danger in her voice now.

Dean sighed and looked up at her: "Look, Granger, I like you very much and it's been a real treat to spend the afternoon here with you, but please trust me when I say that this is not something for me to discuss with you. Please."

Granger understood and laid off, and the tension festered in the air for a few more instants. Since she had been the one to bring it on, Granger felt compelled to break it. She had long wondered how Dean and Seamus, two so seemingly different people, worked so seamlessly together. She imagined the demands of their job must be very different, so she wondered how they managed to communicate and work so well with two distinct backgrounds. Did Seamus ask Dean to put his drawings in a certain format so he could digitalize them? Did Dean have to ask Seamus to take certain measures to preserve or present his work? Sensing an opportunity to both diffuse the tension and advance her own project on how they communicated, she ventured out with a casual question: "So, on a different topic, how do you guys communicate with each other to make sure things run smoothly?"

"Oh, well, it's easy," began Dean, clearly relieved to switch gears. "You have to be open and have trust in one another, that's been the key to our being together—"

"Being together?!" burst Granger: this was a response she had clearly not considered.

Seamus turned red and Dean seemed clearly flustered. "Was that... was that not what you were asking?"

"No, I meant in your work, since it's Seamus who digitalizes your sketches— like do you have to put it in a specific format for him to process— or do you ask him for certain things in digitalizing your work—" Granger rambled, her eyes still wide as saucers, trying to pedal away from the awkwardness by leaving it as far behind in the conversation stream as possible.

"Oh, that," muttered Dean, and he and Seamus smiled sheepishly at one another and then at Granger, both still visibly flushed.

"I think it's great!" she blurted out, seeing that this was clearly not the time to be discussing linguistics. "Seriously, I really do..."

"Thank you, Hermione," Dean smiled at her: it was the first time he'd called her by her first name. "We're, uh, not ready to make it public quite yet, so we'd really appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves."

"Absolutely," said Granger without a hint of hesitation, feeling warmth in her chest at Dean and Seamus's growing familiarity.

"Thanks," said Seamus, now fishing in his knapsack for another snack. "You're a good friend, y'know."

As he continued rustling around in search of a candy bar, Granger felt herself blushing: 'friend.' I was right, she thought, still wrestling with her feelings on the meeting with Shacklebolt. I was right to keep it here, these are going to be my friends.

She smiled kindly at both of them, Seamus now tearing open his candy bar and Dean resuming his sketch, and felt her heart do a little leap in her chest.

Whack!

All of a sudden, Granger was pulled out of her thoughts when something hit her smack on the face, sending her cheeks burning not with a pleasant flush but with stinging pain. The ball dropped into her lap after losing momentum by hitting her in the face, and she brought up a hand to rub at her nose and her watery eyes, stunned by how the ball had seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Sorry, sorry!" she heard, and saw a tall figure bounding toward her, waving apologetically with a gloved hand. "Ginny and Demelza were closing up on me and I had to kick the ball away fast before they could rebound, didn't see where I kicked it, sorry!"

She squeezed her eyes tight to wring out the tears of pain, and when she opened them, clear as day, she saw Ronald Weasley just a few inches from her face, grinning almost dementedly.

"Alright, Granger?" he said, picking the ball up from her lap. "If it's any comfort, I don't think you look any less gorgeous— aside from the nose, I think, it may be crooking slightly—"

"Arsehole," she spat at him, finally regaining breath enough to speak, and without another word, she gathered her purse and got up from the risers, walking away from the pitch angrily with her back turned to it.

"I said I was sorry!" came Weasley's playful shout from behind her back, but she only walked faster, gripping her purse so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Let Harry and Ginny catch up to her, she thought, she wasn't spending a minute longer than she had to around Ronald Weasley.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger: brief instance of verbal abuse/manipulation

Weasley turned back to face the pitch, his face burning with embarrassment despite how cool he'd played it in front of Granger. He was met with a chorus of wolf-whistles and teasing jeers from the boys: "Smooth one, Weasley, real smooth!"

"Oh, shut up," he said, giving a playful shove to Jack Sloper, the nearest defender. "Bunch of gits."

"Particularly smooth considering it was the last kick of the match," Ginny remarked, looking at her watch. "Practice is over, everyone! Thanks for a great scrimmage!"

The men's and women's teams both dispersed, chattering animatedly, but when Weasley turned around to do the same, he noticed a determined figure strutting toward him, primping her blond curls as she approached him.

"Won-Won, that was incredible!" Lavender squealed as she came closer.

"Don't call me that," Ron grimaced, trying to twist away. But she was faster, and soon she was holding on tightly to his arm, keeping him from leaving.

"I didn't know you were so good a goalie, Ronnie," she cooed, raising a hand to try to brush his red fringe out of his eyes.

He whipped his head away from her touch, and tried to fake a friendly chuckle: "That's because you've never been to one of my games before— by the way, who told you I was here?"

"Some guy at your lab," she beamed radiantly. "I went to check whether they'd given you my little note, and I asked those guys where you were. One of them, very nicely, told me you'd probably be at football practice— Cormac, I think his name was? Very kind, very handsome chap, y'know, he was kind enough to even give me a run-down of your lab schedule in case I need you again..."

 _Damn that McLaggen_ , Ron thought, swallowing a curse behind a very forced, tight-lipped smile, _finally getting his revenge on me for beating him out for goalie._

Lavender was undeterred: "...so I came to find you! I thought we could have a nice afternoon together, we haven't been on a date in so long..." she purred, inching her chest closer to his body, ignoring his uncomfortable stiffness and strengthening her grip on his arm.

"Lavender, please get off me. We're not dating. I don't really want this."

"When have you not played hard to get?" she said in a low voice, apparently taking Ron's request as a flirty invitation.

"I'm serious, Lavender," he said, trying to pry her fingers off his arm, but only making her clutch more strongly. "I'm sorry for any signals I gave you at Katie's party, but I was really drunk, and sober me _really_ does not want this, we've put it behind us..."

"That's what you said the last two times we broke up," said Lavender, trying to pull him even closer, but he finally succeeded in shaking her off and backing away. Though startled at his breakaway, she suddenly seemed to have finally caught the hint, and when she spoke again, there was no hint of soft flirtiness in her voice, but rather a cold edge: "This is about Granger, isn't it?"

"Granger? What would make you think that?" said Ron, rubbing his arm where her fingers had left behind red marks, too focused on that to even blush.

"Because if it is," Lavender continued, not even deigning to answer his question, "you're wasting your time. I saw her with that Malfoy guy down at the library a couple days ago, sharing a table and getting all buddy-buddy."

Ron simmered under the surface. "Malfoy? Seriously?" he murmured absentmindedly, feeling a gust of undue jealousy ripple through his heartstrings.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did she not tell you?" Lavender intoned maliciously, without a hint of sympathy in her voice. She once again made a grab at him, and he was so stunned that he couldn't fight her back. She cozied up to his arm once again. "Seriously, Won-Won, why you even bother... I'm right here, you know. And it's worked twice before." She stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. "It's worked quite well, actually, if my memories of us in my bedroom don't fail me..."

This seemed to snap Ron out of his stupor: he regained awareness of where he was and yanked his arm away from Lavender's hold, taking a few steps away from her. When he spoke again, he did it sternly: "I don't know if you heard me the first two times I told you _no_ , Lavender, but just in case, I'm saying it again now: _I don't want this_. Please, respect that. We're not getting back together."

And, with that, he swiveled on his heels and stormed back toward the center of campus, trying his hardest to get away from Lavender.

Hurt, she yelled at his back: "She's never going to like you, you know that, Ronald? No one does. Except for me, Ron. I'm the only one that's ever going to want you."

Her words stung: despite him knowing she was just saying that out of a capricious immaturity, the fact remained that Lavender was the only girl that he'd ever been with. What if she was right? What if he wasn't good enough, what if Granger (or any other girl, for that matter) could never love him— what if Lavender was the best chance he had?

But, without giving her the satisfaction of a second thought, he merely ramped up his pace and blocked his ears toward anything that wasn't the usual sounds of him rushing on a forward path.

* * *

The library was quiet but for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock by the checkout desk and the clacking of students' laptop keyboards at every other table. The atmosphere was filled with the customary sounds of a regular collegiate afternoon— which both Draco and Granger knew to deeply appreciate.

They were sharing a table again, shelved in between two bookcases again, as Granger digitalized the notes she'd taken during her conversation with Harry and Ginny earlier, after they'd left practice. An avid reader, Draco was already on the final pages of _Crime and Punishment_ , which —just as he'd expected— had been in the same place among the Dewey Decimal landscape as he'd left it a few days ago.

They worked diligently and quietly, each taking in the pleasant silence of calm company and feeling gratified for it. Finally, Granger finished typing up her notes, shut her laptop, and leaned back in her chair, rubbing at her tired eyes.

"Finished?" Draco asked almost immediately, raising his glance momentarily from the pages of his book.

"Finished," Granger confirmed, sighing in relief as she leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. She let her head collapse on them, giving her neck a rest from holding her head up high.

"Rough day, huh?" Draco asked with a smile out of the corner of his mouth, closing his book and laying it aside on the table.

"You could say that," Granger laughed lowly, raising her head again to meet his gaze. "Especially the afternoon. I went out to see my first football practice ever, and what did I get in return? A ball straight to the face."

"No kidding," Draco grinned, cocking an eyebrow. "Who was it? Longbottom again?"

"Weasley, actually," Granger answered, and she didn't understand why the name incited a small twinge at the base of her stomach. "Said he'd got distracted aiming the kick somewhere else."

"Classic Weasley," Draco nodded. "Positively oafish, some of those football players are."

"Oh, don't be too harsh on them," said Granger, remembering how Dean ( _her friend Dean!_ ) had said he was a football player too, and there was nothing oafish about him. "There's Harry, for example, he's quite the elegant player—"

"Ah, wonderful Potter," Draco cut her off sardonically, his expression instantly clouding.

Granger refused to let her friend shield it any longer: "Alright, Draco, what is it? What's this huge problem you've got with Harry?"

"You really want to know?" said Draco, again raising her eyebrows at her, and she nodded determinedly, her lips pursed and hands folded on top of one another. He sighed, rolled his eyes in resignation, and spoke: "You know how we went to secondary school together, right?"

"That much he's told me."

"Well, we were enemies— well, as much of enemies as you can be when you're teenagers," he chuckled dryly, but there wasn't a drop of genuine humor in his voice. "We didn't get along well. We competed in everything, we were out to get each other, and we bullied each other constantly and relentlessly. It was your regular teenage rivalry, I suppose, except with ten times as much loathing as you'd usually expect."

"So this is just some teenage rivalry? Oh, come on, Draco—"

"You seriously think this is what this is all about?" he sneered, and she fell quiet. "I'm not so immature, Granger. No, it was worse. Our last year, actually, right before we were bound to go to uni, it intensified immensely. I guess we realized we were running out of opportunities to fuck one another over, because everything got worse. We were hitting each other in the hallways, deliberately making the other look bad in class, doing anything to get better marks than the other... Anyway, it all came to a head one afternoon after we'd gotten detention for a screaming match. He was loitering around the hallway, grabbing his books and ready to go home. I saw him, popped out of a classroom, and stuck my foot out so he'd trip over it. Totally unnecessary, and rather childish, but that was just the point we'd gotten to. So he went flying, and so did his books, but instead of just picking him up and going the other way, he pinned me up against the wall and asked me what was my problem. I was too stunned, so I just sneered at him and called him something like thickheaded, I don't know. Our faces were really close to one another and— he kissed me."

Draco paused, and Granger didn't dare say anything. He swallowed, steeled himself, and continued: "He kissed me. And I kissed him back. I guess that's what all of the tension had amounted to, really, but when the kiss was over, he just dropped my collar, picked up his books, and left. I went home and I thought about it all night, realizing that all my childish actions had really just been a dashed attempt at impressing the boy I had a crush on."

"So you went out and broke up? Is this it?"

"Oh, I wish," drawled Draco, again hacking up that humorless laugh. "That would've made it all a lot easier. But no: he just refused to talk to me for the rest of the year. Didn't even fuck with me anymore, just radio silence. And it was that way for the first year of uni too, until Ginevra Weasley enrolled and he started seeing her. _Then_ he talked to me again, even if it was only when he absolutely _had_ to."

He gave a shaky laugh, and his shoulders shuddered with it. Granger noticed his eyes had welled up, and she reached a hand across the table to grab his. "Oh, Draco, I'm sorry, I didn't know..."

"Yeah, well, for being such good friends with such a brilliant linguist, Potter is really rather shite at communicating, isn't he?" he tried to quip, but his voice quivered with tears, and he pressed his lips tightly together and allowed an angry tear to roll down his cheek before he spoke again. "It messed me up bad, Granger, I'm not going to lie; I'm over it now, I've dated other men, but for years I spent nights angry at myself, unable to sleep, questioning whether there was something wrong with me. And then to not even talk about it? To not even face up to the issue? He ignored me, Granger, he left me to deal with it alone. I don't know if he's bi or he was just experimenting like teenagers do, and it wouldn't really have matter, so long as he'd just _talked_ to me. But he didn't, and that's why I'm always going to have a problem with him."

"I understand," said Granger softly, squeezing his hand. He gave her a sad, friendly smile, surprisingly vulnerable for the Draco Malfoy Granger was accustomed to seeing, and squeezed her hand back.

"Can we leave?" he said, blowing in air and wiping dartingly at his tears with his sleeve. "I'm not really a fan of crying in public spaces."

"Absolutely," Granger said, placing her laptop back into the back zip of her work backpack. "Would you mind walking me over to my office to drop off these papers? I know campus is safe, but it's night and I would feel much safer with company..."

"You don't have to ask twice, Granger," Draco said, getting up and pushing his chair into the table, evidently relieved at being treated normally again. "It would be my pleasure."

They left the library in a pleasant walk side by side, feeling no need to converse but rather falling in step under that knowing silence that friends so easily share. They strode across campus like that, Granger's backpack swinging slightly, Draco's hands folded behind his back. Finally, they arrived at the linguistics faculty, where the night-guard porter gave Granger a tip of his cap (like the morning one, used to her sometimes late schedules) as she and Draco wove her way through the halls to her office.

"This is me," she said when they came to a door with a plaque with her name on it, and she pulled out her keys to open it.

"I'll wait out here," offered Draco simply, thinking that if Granger was as much like him as he sensed she was, she would value the privacy of her own space.

Granger pushed the door open and flicked the lights on in her office. She dropped her backpack by her desk and picked up her purse from her spinning chair instead. She deposited her notes on the desk and was preparing to leave when a hint of unfamiliar yellow on her desk caught her attention.

It was a wrinkled yellow Post-It, with something scribbled dashedly across it. She picked it up to examine it, and the following words met her eyes:

_Granger:  
_ _Sorry about that hit earlier. I really wasn't looking, I mean it. And I also meant it when I said you looked gorgeous still.  
But, if for some reason, you don't believe me, and you really think I hit you intentionally, I'd love if you could come to breakfast with me and the gang tomorrow morning and let me get you breakfast to make it up to you. And I'd be happy to tell you you're pretty again, if you didn't believe me this afternoon.  
9:00 am. The Three Broomsticks, on Hogsmeade Lane. Whole gang. Be there or be square.  
Get it?  
Because you're not a-round.  
(See how good I can be at wordplay? Maybe I should be the linguistics doctor.)  
See you tomorrow. I know I will.  
— Weasley_


	14. Chapter 14

"Alright, folks, it's 8:58 on the clock and if there's one thing I know about Hermione Granger it's that she's never late," Harry said, shooting glances at his wristwatch.

"Place your bets, everyone!" Ginny said happily. "Will Hermione turn up, or will Ronald have made a complete arse of himself again? If you think she's gonna show up, place your forks facing upward; if she's not, place them facing downward."

"What's in it?" asked Dean.

"I buy you breakfast if she does show up and you'd bet she would," said Ginny turning her fork downward, much to Ron's discontent. "If she doesn't and you'd bet she would, you losers buy _me_ breakfast."

"No way," said Dean, hurrying to flip his fork over. He knew Ginny, and he knew that if she beat him, she'd take her sweet revenge and order a breakfast unlike any other just to rub it in. Even if there was the slightest chance of a victory, he wasn't willing to risk it. Neville and Seamus, following along, turned their forks over too.

"Seriously?" groaned Ron, and he was met with apologetic looks. "Not you too, mate!" he cried when Harry surreptitiously flipped his over. "Alright, I'm leaving it up, but you're on, Ginny."

"You bet, big brother," Ginny smiled sweetly.

The suspense hung thick in the air as the seconds ticked away in Harry's watch. When the seconds hand was perilously nearing the 11 on the watch, Ginny turned to look smugly at Ron, almost leaning back triumphantly in her chair already. But right when the seconds hand finished its round and the hours hand settled nicely on the 9, the bell over the door rang out and in walked Granger, looking sheepishly around the place as she tried to find their table. She was dressed in an olive-green A-line skirt paired with a tucked-in ivory cable-knit sweater and taupe flats, her hair held back in a clip, clutching her purse between her hands.

"Pay up," Ron turned triumphantly toward Ginny. "Oh, and you'll be buying breakfast for Granger too, then, I said she was here on my tab."

"I don't mind buying breakfast for Hermione," said Ginny through gritted teeth, evidently disgruntled at her defeat, "but for you, you massive prat..."

Finally, Granger spotted them and her face seemed to light up with recognition. She gave them a friendly, but awkward, little wave and practically tiptoed over to their table, careful not to bump into any of the other diners. She settled into an empty chair between Ginny and Neville, across the table from Ron.

"Good morning, everyone," she said with a shy smile, once again giving them that little wave. The table chorused back a cacophony of varied greetings, all with a smile across their faces, and Granger's smile only grew in size.

Only Ron held back, leaning in his chair with a hint of mirth in his eyes, and waited until everyone was done returning Granger's polite greeting to do it himself: "Mornin', Granger. Glad you showed up. You're looking good."

"Not so shabby yourself, Weasley," she replied coldly with what he knew could only be sarcasm— he was, after all, donning a misbuttoned shirt he'd already spilled juice all over. He turned beet-red and sank back into his chair, and Ginny narrowed her eyes at him smugly, content that Granger had put him in his place and, in the process, knocked him a rung or two down the ladder.

"It's so nice to have you here," Neville blurted out, turning to her and giving her a toothy, lopsided grin. "And, by the way, I'm sorry about that Frisbee a few days ago—"

"Oh, please, don't worry," Hermione said nicely, with a small dismissive wave of her hand that seemed to reassure him. "It wasn't your Frisbee, anyway, it was more Weasley's awful propensity to somehow hit me whenever I'm in his vicinity—"

"Brought that up so early, haven't we," muttered Weasley.

"Two minutes, forty-three seconds," Seamus announced proudly, holding up his digital Casio watch for all to see. "That's how long it took for Ron's massive fuck-up to turn up."

"You should've told me you had a clock running," Granger quipped, "I would've tried to do it even quicker."

The table, all but for Weasley, laughed, and Granger looked pleased with herself. It had definitely been a surprise, both in the introductory meeting and here, to find that her dry humor so often fell so well on their ears, and it made her feel a lot more at ease when she felt she was livening the conversation, which was bound to keep the jabs coming.

The waitress, Rosmerta, whose blond curls were gathered up into a fuchsia headscarf today, sauntered up to their table, her faithful notepad in hand. "Ready to order, everyone?" She seemed to take note of Granger. "Oh, and who's this?"

"Rosmerta, this is our friend, Hermione Granger," Ginny introduced her.

"Oh, I've heard all about you, our own local genius," Rosmerta smiled at her, and Granger noticed not a hint of condescendence in her voice. "Welcome! It's always lovely to welcome new customers, but particularly so when it's a customer of distinction." She gave her a conspiratorial wink, as if sharing an inside joke, and Granger could only smile in response and thank her. "So, what will it be?"

"Hook us all up with a pitcher of pumpkin juice, would ya please, Rosmerta?" Dean flashed her a smile, and then leaned over the table and touched Granger's hand. "House specialty, did you know? Never seen anything like it before in all of England, but once you try it, you'll be coming here a lot more often."

"A lot more often than Puddifoot's, especially," said Rosmerta, turning her nose up a bit at the mention of her rival coffeehouse.

"I said I was sorry, Rosmerta," Harry said, tousling his hair.

"It's okay, Harry, next time I'll just serve you up a saucer of sugarcubes and you can add the coffee in like it's cereal, alright? Should be more up your alley anyway," Rosmerta joked, and the table laughed again.

"Doesn't sound half bad, actually," Harry said.

Rosmerta circled the table, handing each of them a laminated menu, then gave them all another wink and headed off toward the kitchen, giving them time to pick.

Granger noticed that none of the items on the menu were in her usual breakfast plan— there were little mentions of fruit, granola, or yogurt, which altogether constituted what Hermione considered must be 70% of her usual morning diet. However, disposed to try yet another new thing, she began to turn to Ginny to ask her for her guidance around the menu. However, she noticed Neville glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, obviously still uneasy over the whole Frisbee episode. She turned away from Ginny in the opposite direction, facing Neville (who looked very surprised).

"I don't usually eat these things," she said, giving him a reassuring smile. "Help me pick?"

She could've sworn Neville's faced had cracked open in uncontainable joy. "Oh, absolutely!" He leaned in closer to her and they both pored over the menu together, as Neville pointed out different items and gave some background for them: "Bangers and mash, that's a classic, but it's more pub food and not so much for breakfast... There's also the porridge, but Rosmerta makes it a bit watery, don't tell her I said that, though... You can always go for the ham and beans with toast, that's a classic too, can't go wrong with that one... The house pumpkin pasties are also kind of a specialty, I bet you can start to sense a theme here..."

"Order at your leisure, Granger," floated Weasley's voice from the other end of the table, and Granger looked up from her menu to meet his playful gaze. "Ginny's paying for us, so feel free to go wild."

"Oh, I was under the impression I'd have you to thank for breakfast, not your sister again," Granger fired back, and Ron again sank back into his chair.

"Right? What a freeloader," Ginny piped up, shooting Ron a mischievous glance, knowing full well that his pride wouldn't let him clear his name because he would never admit to the bet they'd all made.

"So," Seamus began, diving straight into conversation (Granger noticed happily that they seemed to be talking normally, that they hadn't accommodated her specially, which made her feel like a part of the group more than she could say), "now that everyone here is a grad student," he gave a slight nod toward Ginny, who was beaming radiantly and playfully saluted him back, "how are lectures going?"

"Haven't given any yet," Ginny said, buttering the toast Rosmerta, who had just come back from the kitchen with a plate-laden tray, had set down in front of them. "Just an assistant to the professors for now. But I think they'll let me start giving my own come second semester."

"You have to wait so long?" Harry said: his face, and Dean's, had lit up at the mention of teaching. "But teaching's the best part of being a grad!"

"I'll agree to disagree," winced Granger, pouring herself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher Rosmerta had just placed at the center of the table.

"Before all of you begin bickering," intervened Rosmerta, with the tone of someone accustomed to this, "could I please get your orders? You're all going to be yelling soon, and it'll be impossible then."

"I'll have the usual, please," said Weasley with a wink.

"We'll each have some bangers and mash," said Seamus, gesturing to himself and Dean (and Granger smiled inwardly, recalling the secret she shared with them).

"I'll have some coffee and the treacle tart," Harry said, not even having looked at the menu.

"Lay off on the sugar, you're gonna get diabetes," Ginny said, bumping her shoulder into his playfully. "It'll be the ham for me, please, Ros."

"You got it," Rosmerta pointed at Ginny with her pencil before jotting down her order. "Neville?"

"Porridge, please," Neville said grudgingly, as if trying to atone for criticizing that very dish earlier. Granger noticed he seemed to have a need to apologize even for things he wasn't sure he'd done.

Rosmerta gave one curt, decisive nod. "And for you?" she asked Granger.

"I'll, uh..." Granger looked down at the menu again, skimming it quickly one last time. "I'll have the... the poached eggs and a pumpkin pasty, please," she said, shooting Neville a knowing smile out of the corner of her mouth. "Neville, wanna share a pot of tea?"

"I'd love to!" he said, again with the same toothy grin.

"Excellent choices," Rosmerta said, smiling. "Alright, all of you, you can go back to arguing now, just tone it down when I bring the food, alright?"

"Aye aye, cap'n," said Seamus, giving her a joking salute much like the one Ginny had directed at him earlier. She returned it and headed off to the kitchen again. He turned to the table again now, rubbing his hands eagerly: "Okay now, where were we?"

"Granger was telling Harry how god-awful lecturing apparently is," offered Weasley.

"Ah, yeah," Seamus gave Ron a half-assed fingergun and turned to Granger. "Care to elaborate?"

"Absolutely, I literally have a doctorate in wordiness," she shifted in her seat, issuing forth a round of laughter. "Well, I guess I've just never been much of a people person, and lectures just put me up against a sea of students. I mean, I know my stuff, but it feels like you're always having to fight to earn their attention, and I guess I struggle a bit with answering questions whose answers seem so obvious to me. And I know that's how it is with undergrads, so it makes me feel terrible for hating it so much."

"But those questions are the best part!" Harry chimed in. "It's like you're rediscovering all of it!"

Dean nodded his agreement, and added: "The feeling of satisfaction when they turn in their first sketch..."

"I'm never sure if my students like me," Neville said gloomily, absentmindedly stirring his pumpkin juice with his spoon. "I mean, I love teaching, and I love explaining, but I always feel like I'm terrible, or at least not doing such a good job..."

"Don't worry, Neville," Ginny said, reaching across Granger to pat his shoulder reassuringly. "My friend Hannah is in one of your classes, she says they're really good. You're one of her favorite teachers."

"Really?" Neville said, his face brightening considerably.

"Well I, for one, am glad I don't have to lecture," said Weasley, extending his hand to high-five Seamus.

"How come?" asked Granger, furrowing her brow.

"Research grant," Weasley shrugged. "I spend all my time in the lab."

"I wish I could spend all my time on research," Granger sighed, and she felt her heart twist with nostalgia for a time where the Celtic cave project was just getting started, and she hadn't yet run into the bump (that dreaded missing scroll...) that had stalled it entirely. As much as she appreciated the fact that it had led her to this project and all its lovely implications, it had been her dream, and it had been brutally dashed in an instant, uncertain whether it would ever piece itself back together. 

"I thought that's what you did," Weasley cocked an eyebrow at her as Rosmerta came back and began setting plates in front of them. "I mean, what with spending all that time in the library..."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Granger replied coldly, thanking Rosmerta with a little smile for the steaming pumpkin pasty she'd just laid in front of her.

"Oh, I only mean since, y'know, you've been having all that time with Malfoy in the library recently, I thought you might be working on something together," he said, feigning nonchalance, beginning to spread his beans over his toast.

"Malfoy's a chemist," Granger snapped, not even looking at Neville as he reached across her to pour tea into her cup. "Why would we be working on something together?"

"Oh, so it's not work you're doing?" Weasley asked, an odd edge to his voice. "Not even for the PR project?"

"Ron, cut it out," Ginny hissed, but Weasley and Granger's gazes were locked defiantly, meeting over the center of the table.

"What is it, Weasley?" Granger enunciated. "Am I not allowed to make my own choices in friends?"

"Oh, I'm only saying you could have better sense in who you went out with," Weasley commented, taking a bite out of his toast.

"I'm sorry, who said anything about going out with him?" Granger shook her head, bewildered. "We go to the library because it's a quiet place, and we're quiet people who like quiet company, is that so bad?"

"No, not at all," said Weasley, taking another bite. "Just saying, again, it's an odd choice of person to be seeing..."

"And I suppose someone like Lavender Brown would be better," panned Granger, surprising even herself at where that jab had possibly come from. A stunned murmur rippled through the table, which had otherwise remained stone silent throughout their bickering exchange.

"Low blow, Granger," Weasley said more softly now, laying his toast back on the plate. "But again, I supposed that sort of thing is just what you've learned if you've been going on dates with Draco Malfoy—"

"They aren't dates, and I'm not going out with him!" she screamed, standing up so abruptly that the cutlery on the table clanged with the force of her rise. "Which you'd know, Weasley, if you would just bother to _listen!_ "

Without another word, she turned on her heels, collected her purse from where it hung on the back of her chair, and strode determinedly toward the door, pushing it open in one stroke and sending the bell ringing. Silence hung over the table for a few awkward instants; then, just as suddenly, the bell rang out again. Granger stormed back in, red in the face, walked up to the table, swiped her pumpkin pasty from the plate, shot Weasley one last murderous glare, and stomped out again, her exit punctuated with the third ring of the bell in the space of just a few seconds.


	15. Chapter 15

As much as she hated lecturing, Granger could always pride herself on the fact that she at least was always fully devoted to them. Her attention, as much as it wished to be elsewhere, was always fully poured into the demands of the classroom and the nuances of her class, and she threw herself completely into doing as best a job as she could.

However, this morning, two days after the breakfast she'd stormed out on, she couldn't even claim that to her credit. Her mind was swamped with flashes of what that morning at the Three Broomsticks had been like, and how rudely she'd behaved toward the people she so desperately wanted to be friends with. True, it was Weasley that had wound her up, but she'd lost her temper in front of _everyone_ and walked out so rudely on _everyone_. And she hadn't even left behind money to cover her tab! How was this going to reflect on her? Were they still going to want to talk to her, to get to know her beyond the professional scope, after she'd completely blown up the first time they'd all wanted to be around her?

She was lost so deep in thought that she didn't notice that all of her students' hands had darted up all of a sudden.

"Yes?" she said, pointing unspecifically at any hand in the sea of them, rubbing the bridge of her nose to assuage a headache that had begun to throb at the back of her head.

"Dr. Granger, we don't mean to be rude, but the lecture period ended a few minutes ago," a blond boy piped up in the first row.

"Oh— I'm so sorry, everyone, class dismissed, see you Thursday," she waved them off, angry at herself for allowing such an invasive memory to root in her thoughts in such a way and kick away everything else.

The classroom came alive with the bustle of students pushing their chairs back and leaving the classroom, chattering animatedly as they did so, and Granger turned her back to the lecture hall, her hands pressing against the front desk and her shoulders hunched over. She took a deep breath and sighed as she exhaled, trying her hardest to collect her scrambled thoughts into a concrete plan of action. _Hermione Granger always knows what to do_ , she told herself, _and right now, what she needs to do is apologize to each of them, say she understands if they don't want to be her friends anymore, maybe offer to buy them breakfast in return... Yes, yes, I'll do that..._ she trailed off, thinking already about how the easygoing Dean, Seamus, Ginny, Neville, and Harry would probably readily accept her apology and things would be back to normal. Weasley— now, that was an enigma, but five out of six was a start. And besides, _he_ had been the one to stir her in the first place. _It'll turn out okay. I know it will. They don't hold grudges, and they all did seem very much to want me around them... Yes, things will turn out okay._

Already feeling better, she took one more deep breath and turned around to face the empty lecture hall; however, to her surprise, it wasn't empty. In the last row of seats, close to the end of the row, remained a little head of white-blond wild hair, staring widely at her with a seemingly unblinking gaze.

"Can I help you?" Granger called out to the figure, astonished to see someone had remained behind— and embarrassed that she'd allowed herself that small display of weakness in front of whoever it was. No response came. "Who's there?"

The figure collected its things and scuttled down to where Granger was. As it got closer, Granger could see it was Luna Lovegood, today clad in a scandalously electric blue flowy skirt and a matching strawberry-pink tank top, her white sandals clacking as they approached.

"Luna, you scared me," Granger said, a little unsettled at the impassive silence the young girl had displayed.

Without acknowledging Granger's comment, Luna got close to her and spoke: "I really enjoyed that lecture, Dr. Granger. I thought syntaxis was immensely interesting."

"What are you doing here, Luna? I thought you were a psychology major?"

"I am," affirmed Luna, confused as to what that had to do with anything. Granger noticed her voice had an almost sleepy quality to it, and her sentences a sort of disjointed construction, with almost no connecting words: "I had a free morning, and Ginevra told me you were teaching an introduction to linguistics. I like learning anything."

"Ginevra— you mean Ginny?"

"Yes, of course, though I think she should go by Ginevra. It's prettier. If you ask me, psychologically, I think she keeps going by Ginny because she's accustomed to that being the name her family uses, since she's the youngest of seven and the name is so referent to her being the smallest, and I think she's just used to the familiarity or to _being_ the youngest and the nickname just evokes that." She finished her analysis and stared blankly at Granger, but she got the feeling that Luna wasn't exactly expecting a response.

Granger cleared her throat: "Alright, well, thank you for dropping by, Luna. I hope I didn't quite bore you today— I'm not totally in my element..."

"Because of Ronald," Luna offered. Again, it wasn't a question.

"Ginny told you?"

Luna nodded. "We're good friends."

"Well, I suppose it is to some extent because of Ronald," Granger said, disregarding the fact that she was likely pouring her heart out to an undergrad that wasn't even in her academic field and who she hadn't had many conversations with.

"He winds people up. It's either that or making them laugh. I think it's because he doesn't like being vulnerable," Luna shrugged, and Granger wondered if this was her attempt at being comforting.

"I wouldn't know," Hermione said with a little breathy laugh.

"I wouldn't either," Luna said, the corner of her mouth cocking up in a puzzling smile. "I only know him as Ginevra's brother."

Granger didn't know what to answer to Luna's peculiar speech, so she just remained quiet. Seeing no need to break the silence, Luna remained quiet too, reminding Granger of an owl twitching its head to examine something in front of its wide-open eyes. Granger turned back toward her desk to collect her purse and briefcase, sensing that the conversation was over, when Luna's voice chimed once again from behind her.

"So your lectures are open to observers?" It was the first question she had asked that actually _was_ a question, and Granger was strangely taken aback by it.

"Why, yes," she said, "I'm flattered you want to be in them—"

"Oh, splendid," Luna said with a little smile, cutting her off. "I'll make sure to tell Ronald."

"Wait— Weasley?" Granger said with a start, but Luna had already spun on her heels and was heading toward the lecture hall's door. "Luna, _Weasley?_ " she stammered, but Luna was gone. 

* * *

Come Thursday, Granger had dispelled most of her troubles from her mind: they'd all told her she had nothing to apologize for, that they understood, that they were all still friends. Ginny had even gone so far as to thank her for her outburst, saying that it was time that someone gave it to Ronald like that. "You should've seen the look on his face, Hermione!" she'd said, elbowing her lightly in the ribs and laughing openly. "Like he'd been steamrolled over!"

But for all their talk of Weasley, she had yet to see him. As much as he'd provoked her, she supposed she still owed him an apology, even if the thought of going to find him on her own was less than pleasant. However, like ripping off a band-aid, it had to be done fast, so she resolved to find him at most before this weekend was up.

She couldn't think about that now, though: all around her, students' hands were going up, the lecture hall filled. Granger had had a good day today: her students had been engaged and had asked good questions, and she'd managed to get in the flow of things and banish any intrusive thoughts from the forefront of her mind for the time being. She pointed left and right and gave answers almost reflexively, recalling how she'd done the same during that first introductory session with all of her friends ( _friends!_ ).

Finally, the tide of hands seemed to ebb, and Granger dispatched the last few answers easily. "No more questions?" she asked to no one and particular, and the student crowd seemed to bob with everyone shaking their heads no. "Alright then, class dismissed! Thank you! See you Monday!"

The respectful mass of students again dissolved into mindless blabbering, the classroom filled with the sounds of chairs being pushed in and backpacks being picked up and slung over shoulders, the usual symphony signaling the end of a lecture period. Granger took it in with the satisfaction of a job well performed, and began collecting her things with her back to the lecture hall, preparing to leave in her students' wake.

When she turned around, ready to leave, she noticed once again that only one seat was filled, a redhead seated casually in a middle row. He gave her a smile and, clapping slowly, got out of his chair and descended the steps to meet her at her desk.

"Stellar lecture, Granger," Weasley said, halting the clapping as soon as he was face to face with her. "I'm more of a 'numbers' man myself, rather than 'words', but I have to say, you have a talent for making even the things I thought were dull interesting. I hadn't thought for a second about sentence construction differing by culture, but it makes total sense, and I guess in a sense it's like a building block— and isn't physics that? The study of building blocks—?"

"Weasley, what are you doing here?" Granger cut him off, raising an eyebrow at him.

His feigned pompousness dissolved, and he now gave her a smile that was much softer and much more honest than any one he'd directed at her before. "It's simple, Granger," he said, and stepped closer. "A few days ago, you told me to listen. So that's exactly what I came to do."


	16. Chapter 16

Granger's heels clacked noisily on the stainless black-and-white marble floor of the University's PR offices. _No wonder their advertisements are such trash_ , she thought, looking around the impeccable lobby and the clear glass walls, _they blew all their budget on their offices_.

She headed toward the front desk, where a reedy woman in a fuchsia pantsuit was clicking away at a desktop computer. "Good morning," she bid her, trying to catch her attention. The secretary looked up with what seemed like disgust. "I'm here to see the Head of PR."

"So you're her ten thirty, aren't you," the secretary said sneeringly, and disappeared through the doors behind her desk, presumably to let the Head of PR know.

Without being prompted to do so, Granger took a seat at one of the imitation leather couches that lined the sides of the office. She didn't know what she was expecting (a less imposing lobby? A less rude reception?), but it certainly wasn't this. Nonetheless, as she waited for the secretary to return, she traced her mental steps again, going over what she was here to do.

She had called the PR office every day since Shacklebolt had given her the contact, but on no day had they answered except for yesterday. At least it could be said for the secretary that she didn't put on a different persona for the phone: she'd been just as dry and impertinent. She'd set up a meeting without knowing exactly what she should expect, but Shacklebolt had asked, and she wanted her project to be on good standing. After she'd scheduled it, she'd decided to get another one of her project interview-conversations done, for which she chose the two people she'd talked to the least: Weasley and Luna, so she'd sent notes to both of them asking if they could meet at noon, when she assumed she'd be out of the PR offices already. Overall, the plan for the day stretched before her like a lingering promise, and she was ready to tackle it starting here.

"She will see you now," the secretary's nasal voice reached her ears again, and as Granger rose gracefully from the couch and dusted off her skirt, she noticed the secretary didn't look very happy at her having sat down in the first place.

She followed the secretary through a door next to the front desk. The hallways had just the same aesthetic as the lobby, and Granger couldn't help but think it had been designed in a way that it would be simultaneously imposing and presumptuous. They went round the bend through several corridors, the walls lined with clippings from newspapers, until they reached an all-white door.

"This is you," the secretary said, and rapped on the door before pivoting on her heels and sauntering right back down where she'd come from. _Great, she didn't even give me time to collect myself,_ thought Granger, bringing a hand up to touch up her hair.

The door swung open: in the frame stood a woman dressed in an acid-green, skin-tight suit with fuchsia buttons, the blazer cut to where her back ended and her rear began and the pencil skirt stretched over her thighs down to her knees. A faux fur scarf was draped around her neck, and thin rectangular spectacles were delicately placed on her nose, held around her neck by an equally thin chain. Her face was porcelain pale and grotesquely exaggerated by squealing pink blush and a bright red shade of lipstick, and her white-blond curls were primped up into a collected bob that seemed held together with a whole stock of hairspray.

"Ah, Ms. Granger!" she exclaimed, and held out a hand with long pink acrylic nails that more resembled talons. As soon as Granger touched her hand, she withdrew it recoiling, as if something in Granger's touch was disgusting. "Come in, please, I was expecting you now..."

Granger stepped into the office, which she noticed was a far cry from the collected monochrome of the rest of the offices. The wallpaper was key-lime green, and the furniture, including the desk, was made of tacky white acrylic. More newspaper clippings hung on the walls, some with the same woman's face smiling down at the office, all framed in pink imitation wood. On her desk was an assortment of pink pens made to look like quills, which Granger found not only in bad taste, but also hugely impractical.

"I don't believe we've properly met," the woman said, settling behind her desk without inviting Granger to do the same in one of the two chairs in front of her. Despite not having been asked, however, Granger took a seat, noticing with a wince that the modern-style chairs were just as uncomfortable as they looked. "I'm Rita Skeeter, Head of Public Relations for the University."

"Dr. Hermione Granger, Linguistics Department," said Granger simply through a tight-lipped smile, not bothering to offer up her hand for a handshake again.

"So I've heard. Kingsley sent you, Ms. Granger?"

"It's Dr., actually—" Granger corrected good-naturedly.

"I heard you the first time," Skeeter rudely cut her off, and Granger fell silent abruptly. "As I was saying, _Ms._ Granger, I'm under the impression Kingsley sent you."

"Yes, Dr. Shacklebolt has put me in charge of the "Voice of the University" initiative," she confirmed, noticing how Skeeter's forced smile seemed to contract at being reminded that Granger had taken over her failed campaigns. "I went to see him a few days ago to let him know that I'd adjusted the project from its original pitch, and he asked me to run it by you."

"Very well. I've seen it already," Skeeter said, opening her desk drawer to pull out a folder file she threw down before Granger. Granger opened it and saw the portraits of Harry, Ginny, Neville, and all those who formed her 'database', as Shacklebolt called it. "If you'll allow my opinion, I think you've done wrong in choosing that bunch of dorks to represent the University."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on. This Longbottom chap? That Lovegood character? When you could've picked people like Cedric Diggory —you know him, everyone does, he's a med student, and positively dreamy— to highlight..."

"These are fascinating people," Granger defended her friends, "even if they may not necessarily fit a conventional model—"

"Lay off it, don't try to be noble, you know I'm right," Skeeter interrupted her again. "I will admit there are _some_ good picks: that Malfoy has intriguing looks, and that Ginevra girl looks like she's got spunk to her, and of course, _Harry Potter..._ " Her voice dissolved into a sigh. "Who doesn't love Harry Potter? And, more importantly for our publicity, of course, who doesn't _know_ Harry Potter?"

"You know Harry?"

"All of England does, girl," Skeeter said derisively. "Pretty notorious when he was a schoolboy. Didn't you ever hear of the Potter double murders? Such a beautiful boy, orphaned so young, and then he turned out to be such a promise at football... Everyone watched him grow up."

Granger was taken aback: of course she'd heard about the Potter murders, but she'd thought there wasn't a connection. Harry had never spoken to her about that side of him, and she'd never pried. She was a little hurt that she'd had to realize it coming from such an unpleasant woman, but to allow herself to hurt was to lower her guard in front of her, and she couldn't let that happen.

"Well, there you have it, then," Granger said coldly. "The celebrity appeal you wanted. Am I approved now?"

"Went straight to the point, didn't you," Skeeter didn't grin so much as bare her teeth at her. "I'll give you that, Ms. Granger. You don't beat around the bush."

"Let's be honest, Skeeter, if it wasn't because Dr. Shacklebolt wants your green light, I wouldn't even have bothered to stay here so long."

"So she talks back," Skeeter muttered audibly, her face contorting with the effort of a venomous smirk. She ripped a neon green Post-It off of the handbag-shaped dispenser at the corner of her desk, and moved her quill-pen over it with a flourish before handing it to Granger. On it were the words 'PROPOSAL APPROVED BY HEAD OF PR', and below that her looping signature. "I'll give you my approval only because I know it's futile not to do so, since Shacklebolt is going to stand up for his darling Ms. Granger no matter what I say, but if you must know, I think your approach to this is trash and it's totally going to tank."

Granger pocketed the note before Skeeter could rescind it and raised her gaze defiantly to challenge her: "Like you're the one to tell me how to get my ad campaigns not to flop. I don't think I need to remind you that the only reason I had to do this in the first place was that your initial one was so awful."

"Playing dirty now, are we," again said Skeeter in that offhanded mutter that Granger could nonetheless perfectly hear.

"Just keeping up with the tone of this conversation."

"You didn't have to attack my ad campaign, you know, I pulled from what was trending in youth spaces, but I suppose someone like you is arrogant enough to believe she's above social media."

"Trust me, it came across clearly," Granger deadpanned, thrilled that she'd struck a nerve and taking note of the jab Skeeter had thrown at her. "Everyone who saw them knew you were pandering, and couldn't help but cringe at it. That's what happens when you haven't got a young person on your team because you think you're cool and relevant enough to pull it off by yourself. Then again, I suppose it could just be your ego," she gestured around at the framed portraits of Skeeter lining the walls. "For next time, when I'm taken off this assignment I was placed on because of your incompetence, may I suggest—"

"Listen carefully, Granger," Rita hissed, rising up from her chair and piercing Granger with her gaze. "I don't like prissy little girls, no matter how many doctorates they have, telling me how to do my job."

"Then do a better one next time," Granger spat, rising abruptly as well and pushing the chair backward with the force of her movement. The two women faced off against one another, suspending their deathly gazes above the desk, before Granger spun on her heels and left the office with a slam of the door.

"I said you'd have to be careful, Granger," Skeeter whispered, sitting back down with the appearance of a snake retreating back into the basket it'd darted out from, "and since you've decided it's wise to mess with me, it may be good if you remember that I mean what I say."

* * *

The meeting had concluded a lot earlier than Granger had expected, but she couldn't have expected otherwise: it had gone disastrously, and she wasn't going to spend a minute longer in that office, not once she had the approval she'd bothered to come here for.

However, this meant that it was scarcely 10:52, and she still had a while to go before she was due to meet Weasley and Luna for their conversation. She walked decisively toward the bloc of apartments that housed her flat. Her discussion with Skeeter seemed to have inflamed every inch of her, and she felt, more acutely than before, the stinging sensation of discomfort her heels were wreaking on her feet. Such was her steaming with anger that she did an uncharacteristically un-Granger thing. And anyone who'd ever caught a glance of Dr. Hermione Granger, respected Linguistics scholar, before and saw her striding across campus that morning was surprised that she was walking barefoot, her heels clenched in her hand.

Finally, she reached her apartment building, and thundered up the stairs, unbothered to wait for the elevator. She reached her pleasant little flat and spun her key in the front lock, pushing the door open and throwing her heels away from her as she walked toward her closet to replace them. She ran her feet under the faucet briefly to rinse off any dirt that had gathered on their soles during her walk, and then placed them into a more comfortable pair of navy blue flats, which paired quite well with the peplum navy skirt and the scalloped-cut flowered blouse she had chosen today. She grabbed her purse again and walked out of her apartment, locking the door behind herself, her newfound comfort almost a way to spite Rita Skeeter's forced _everything_.

She walked down the stairs again and headed toward Hogsmeade Lane, the main street on campus, before she thought to glance at her watch. Even with the trip to her apartment, it was scarcely 11:20, and she still had time to kill before her next meeting.

Suddenly, a thought popped into her mind: she didn't know where Luna was now, but she knew Weasley was likely to be at the lab. She'd become a lot more amenable to him after he'd shown up at her lecture and behaved so wonderfully throughout it, and she was even looking forward to their meeting up at noon, more so than she was to Luna (though she, of course, had also been lovely). So she thought she might swing by the lab and surprise him with a beverage, just like he'd done for her that day at her own office, so they could walk together to the place they'd agreed on with Luna. Yes, she'd do that.

Now with some direction, she stopped at Puddifoot's to pick up two chamomile teas to go, and took them in a tray toward where she now knew the lab was, having been there once before. The whole walk, the seething thoughts of Skeeter and their horrible meeting were dispelled from her mind, instead replaced with the pleasant anticipation of how Weasley would react to her surprise.

She reached the lab and, unable to contain a little smile from playing along her lips, she leaned back against the wall opposite the door, deciding to wait a few more minutes until Weasley exited to surprise him then. However, a mixture of voices reached her ears. It sounded like... McLaggen? And a chorus of ill-meaning laughter behind him?

She gave two quiet steps toward the door, pushed it slightly ajar, and placed her eye to the slit to see what was going on. She could see McLaggen's imposing form towering over someone else, though from here she couldn't quite see who it was. However, McLaggen's booming taunts soon resolved that doubt: "Lost your samples again, Weasley? Gee, wonder what Sinistra will have to say about it this time, it's your second strike..."

"I saw you swipe them this time, McLaggen. Give them back," came Weasley's voice, as if to confirm who McLaggen was addressing.

"So what if you saw me? Unless your little friend Corner caught it on tape, it's still your word against mine, and you know they're still going to believe me over you." There was silence, and Granger presumed Weasley was pouting, though she still couldn't see them. "Better luck next time, Weasley! What are you going to do when they inevitably dismiss you from the Faculty of Physics, huh? Go cry to your little girlfriend Brown, I suppose..."

"She's not my girlfriend," she heard Weasley growl, "she hasn't got anything to do with me."

"Oh, true, I suppose I was being generous in assuming any girl, even Lavender Brown, would want anything to do with how much of a loser you are." McLaggen's insult was echoed by a gaggle of guffaws in the background.

 _Okay, that does it_ , Granger thought, a reckless idea popping into her head, and she pushed the door open with her shoulder. The sound of her entry startled those inside the lab, and they all froze to look at her. For an instant, Granger was frozen in place too: how was she going to pull this off without making a total fool of herself? But then her determination regained its usual place, and with it coursing through her veins, she held her head up high and twisted her features into what she hoped look like a sickly sweet smile.

"Oh, Ronald, I've been looking everywhere for you!" she crooned, swinging her hips as she walked toward him. She embraced him and placed a kiss to his cheek.

"Granger, what are you doing?" Weasley muttered alarmedly under his breath.

"Just go with it," she hissed back, and pulled away from the hug to face the lab (and especially McLaggen) again.

"Well, gentlemen, I sure hope I'm not interrupting anything, but Ronald and I have a reservation at Godric's for brunch, and I'd hate for us to miss it."

"A reservation?" Michael Corner piped up, bewildered, but Weasley administered him a dexterous kick under the table to get him to keep quiet.

"Yes, a reservation!" said Granger in that overly sweet, overly high-pitched tone of voice she was putting on (and hoping she wasn't entirely terrible at). "We've been going out for a couple of weeks already and this is the first time we're going on a proper date, can you believe?" she intoned as she forced out a tinkling laugh.

McLaggen looked positively dumbfounded: "You— going out with—?"

"Yes, I'm going out with Ronald, and what about it?" Granger placed the hand that wasn't holding the tray on her hip, cocking her head sideways at McLaggen and raising a derisive eyebrow. "Can't believe it's not you, is that it?"

There were more sniggers, but now directed surreptitiously at McLaggen rather than backing him up. McLaggen, who was quickly turning an angry red, opened and closed his mouth like a fish gaping for breath underwater, trying to get words out but seeming to come up with nothing.

"Well, if that will be all," Granger said contentedly, "Ronald and I will be going." She darted out her hand and grasped his, trying to make it look as natural and affectionate as she could. "Come along now, we wouldn't wanna be late." And, giving a last sickeningly sweet smile at the disbelieving scientists, she ambled seductively out of the lab with an incredulous Weasley in tow.

Outside the lab, she pushed the door closed and kept holding his hand until they'd walked away and around a corner, where she was sure none of the physicists would venture to pry. Once there, she finally released his hand and turned to him.

"What was that?" Weasley sputtered, the first words he managed to get out through his evident shock.

"I heard McLaggen riling you, and I thought about getting him to lay off and getting you out of there. With the added bonus of pissing him off, of course."

"You're a bloody genius," Ron mumbled. "Thank you. But what were you doing there in the first place?"

Suddenly, Granger's impulse to go with him seemed embarrassing, and she blushed and looked away as she explained: "My meeting let out much earlier than I expected, and I thought I'd drop by and surprise you like you did at my office a while ago— anyway, this is for you," she hastily handed him one of the pink cups to diffuse her embarrassment, feeling like she was sounding more ridiculous by the second.

Weasley took the cup and remained silent for a few instants before his slow reply came: "There's chamomile tea in this, isn't there."

Granger laughed and nodded, and Weasley gave her a lopsided smile in return.

"I didn't know what you'd like— I know, kinda boring, but it was a safe option," she retorted, trying to imitate his voice speaking the exact words he'd uttered to her the week before.

"Oh, I don't sound like that! You may be a genius, but you're piss-poor at imitations," said Weasley, nonetheless looking delighted as he took a sip from his cup.

"Come on, Weasley, we're gonna be late to meet Luna," began Granger, starting back toward Hogsmeade Lane so they could walk to their meeting place.

Weasley was right on her heels, and soon bounded up right beside her: "Right, we're meeting Luna! In the excitement of apparently getting a girlfriend, it'd slipped my mind. Y'know, maybe we can talk about how good you are at lecturing—"

"Oh, sod off, Weasley," she said with a laugh, and shoved him playfully toward the pavement as they continued walking together.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential triggers: Lavender being abusive and manipulative toward Ron

"Is the old adage true, then? Is mathematics really a language of its own?"

It was a late afternoon, and through the library skylights, Granger could see the sky begin to dim in the progression toward night. Across from her, in a secluded corner between shelves, was Blaise Zabini. She knew he'd want to schedule his conversations in his own time, at his own convenience, and he'd arranged for them to meet individually this afternoon. He allowed himself to be sunk in thought, pondering her question, his customary serious expression becoming even more pronounced, before he offered an answer in a rumbling, deep voice.

"I don't think I would say it is a language in and of itself. The analogy can be made that numbers are as to letters, but I think mathematical symbols are more of a... a kind of shorthand, so to say, for actual language. I think _speaking_ maths mean being familiar with what those symbols mean and what their translation into a conventional sentence structure would be. That being said, the maths shorthand of language is a lot more logical," he said, and Granger believed it: even Zabini's fluid manner of speaking did not impede him from speaking in a very logical way, no corners cut or bushes beaten around. "We don't complicate ourselves with adverbs and adjectives, even verb conjugations. Just the concept itself and what is needed to convey its relation to another concept. I don't know if I'm making myself clear."

"No, it's absolutely clear," Granger said, and it was true: what Zabini was saying about maths made complete sense, and it was always nice to be introduced to a perspective she hadn't thought in the way of before. She looked up at Zabini and had started opening her mouth to commence the next question when a high-pitched, girlish voice drifted nastily toward them.

"First you cheat on Malfoy with Ron, and now on Ron with Zabini, huh?"

"Excuse me?" frowned Granger, trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from, but there was no need to look for long: Lavender Brown stepped around the bookcase and stood in full view, her eyebrows knit together and her mouth twisted into a poisonous smirk.

"You heard me. Man, Granger, you really do go through boyfriends fast, don't you?"

"Had it not occurred to you that this may very well be an interview that had no need for your interruption?" Zabini chimed in, his annoyance at Lavender dragging his words.

"Oh, so it's just an interview," said Lavender, pulling out one of the remaining chairs from their table, spinning it, and sitting on it without invitation as she would on a saddle, resting her arms on the chair's back. "Still going out with Ron, then?"

Granger was almost going to say that she wasn't, but then she remembered yesterday's ruse, and thought of Weasley: Lavender seemed just the type of person to be in cahoots (God, the very expression sounded ridiculous) with McLaggen, and if he caught wind that it had all been a lie, the lab would become even more of a nightmare for Weasley. So she kept it up: "Yes, I am. Why?"

Lavender's face contorted into an ugly grimace, which told Granger that that wasn't what she wanted to hear. Nonetheless, she sustained the ugly smile throughout, now twisting it into a sort of grin as she spoke: "Well, then I guess I'm in the right place. I came to warn you."

"Warn me?" Granger scoffed, which only seemed to make Lavender even tenser. "Warn me of what?"

"About Ron, and what you're really signing up for." She shifted in her seat and resettled her hands on top of one another. "He's not a very good person, you know? He can be quite rude, and quite insufferable. He's also not very good-looking, haven't you noticed how his nose is abnormally long and his freckles sort of clump in places? And let's not talk about how he isn't close to even being the smartest. Especially compared to you— what, do you really think you're not going to get bored of someone so dull when you're quite the genius yourself? And being in a relationship with him is very difficult. He's stubborn, he refuses to listen, and it always has to be his way. I think it's because he has such an inferiority complex— all his brothers are very successful, you know, and he was number six, and he always resented that. So he'll try to put you down, constantly." Lavender went on and on, speaking with what seemed like greater passion the more she talked, her face curling scarily into an expression that suggested to Granger she was enjoying all the horrible things she was putting forth. "He laughs at people, and not in a good sense; he's very good at hitting you where it hurts the most. And there's always the fact that he's _always_ joking, he's so childish, always making some sort of remark he thinks is hysterical or something, but they're really quite bad and very annoying, but you have to pretend they're funny so he won't skulk. Have I talked about his skulking? He can be very moody, and when he's in one of his moods there's no getting him out of them and no telling what he's going to do. And he's so messy! It's no wonder the scientists don't like him, but then again, not very many people do. And— and—" she skidded near the end, out of breath and looking greedily for more to spout.

Granger remained silent for an instant, her eyebrow raised as it had been throughout almost all of Lavender's tirade. "Are you done?"

"What?"

"Is that all I have to hear about how horrible Weasley apparently is?"

"There's nothing _apparently_ about it," Lavender squeaked, taken aback by Granger's impassiveness. "He's irritating, he's dull, he's moody, he's ugly, he's chaotic—"

"Well, if he's really so bad, you probably shouldn't want to be with him so desperately," Granger deadpanned, and Lavender looked like she'd just been made to swallow an onion whole. Granger, pleased at the reaction she'd elicited from the unpleasant woman, smiled to herself and shrugged.

"You don't understand," Lavender finally hissed, all the color drained from her face and all the vitriol with which she'd spat at Weasley now directed wholly toward Granger. "Ronnie and I have a _connection_. It's something special."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," said Granger mockingly, trying to turn away from her to signal that this conversation was over and she would now be returning to Zabini, but Lavender clasped her shoulder with an iron grip and yanked Granger to face her.

"It's different. It's special. And you'll get tired of him soon, considering how unlovable he can be, and that means, as always, that I'm his best shot."

"Well," Zabini said again, raising his voice, the annoyance much more evident, "considering this is Granger's _best shot_ at getting a decent mathematician to speak to her project, I'd say it's very disrespectful for you to continue encroaching upon our time so disparagingly. Please leave."

Lavender, seething, was dumbstruck. She looked almost imploringly at Granger, as if hoping that she was as angry as her and would give her new fuel on which to run her verbal rampage, but Granger would do no such thing: she merely shrugged, gave Lavender a pitying smile, and gave her back to her to look at Zabini again.

Lavender was stung: without another word, she rose from her chair and stormed out of the library, not before shooting the two of them one last loathful glance.

"Oh, look at that," Zabini said emotionlessly once she was gone. "She didn't even push her chair in."

* * *

After a long day at the lab, Weasley couldn't be happier to finally arrive at his flat. His arms laden with paper grocery bags, he twisted his own doorknob with his pinky and used his shoulder to push his way inside. Once inside his apartment, he kicked his leg back to push the door closed. Without turning on the lights, he placed the grocery bags on the little round table by the door, wriggled out of his coat and hung it on the rack, and finally stretched his hand out to reach the light switch and flicked it.

He could've sworn he'd jumped so high he'd touched the ceiling with the crown of his head. "Lavender, what the hell are you doing here?"

Lavender was crumpled in the corner right by one of his couches, nursing a half-empty bottle of some liquor in her laps, her face marred by the mascara that her streamed down her cheeks, which were all blotchy. Her eyes, swollen and bloodshot, were a surefire marker than she'd been crying. 

When she saw Weasley, she lifted herself from her heap with effort, and without letting go of the bottle's neck, staggered toward him with open arms, cooing, "Won-Won... Won-Won..."

As she got closer, Weasley scrunched up his nose: her breath reeked of staling alcohol. "Lavender— okay, we're gonna need to put this away," he reached for the bottle, slipping it from her grip, and placed it alongside the grocery bags on the round table from which he hadn't moved. "How did you get in?"

"You never —hic!— lock your apartment," Lavender mumbled sadly. "That much I remember."

Weasley cursed himself and made a mental note to start bolting the door when he went out, even if it meant more unpleasant encounters with the porter whenever he misplaced his keys, which was frequently. 

All of a sudden, Lavender flung herself around him, her arms so tight around his neck he could barely breathe, and started wailing uncontrollably.

"I'm gonna need you to get off," Weasley gasped, struggling to get air and attempting to push her off. But she didn't budge.

"Won-Won, I've missed you, I can't stop thinking about you, I need you," she slurred in quick succession, making it almost impossible to pick out the words. "But you —hic!— you left me," she hiccuped, and this seemed to loosen her grip a bit. "You abandoned me."

"I didn't _abandon_ you," Weasley said, taking advantage of her weaker hold to push her off entirely and lead her to the couch, where he sat her down. "We broke up for the last time some time ago. We were never back together, and I told you I'm sorry about leading you on at Katie's party, but it didn't mean anything to me, and it shouldn't mean anything to you."

"So you're still —hic!— as insensible as ever," rasped Lavender, a nasty smile painting chaos among her features. "You kiss me and it's not supposed to mean anything. But nothing means anything to you, does it, Ronnie, except for your _precious Granger_."

She practically spat out the last two words, and Weasley was taken aback. "Granger?"

"You're dating her, aren't you," Lavender croaked with the same nasty smirk, and it took Weasley a couple of instants to recall yesterday's trick at the lab. _Damn that McLaggen_ , he cursed him, _probably went and reported to her, just like he did about football practice..._

He wouldn't give her more to go off of. That much he resolved. So he sighed and spoke softly, reassuringly, trying to establish reason without addressing Lavender's question: "Lavender, you're really drunk, and I think you need to go home. Let's go down to the lobby, the porter will happily call you a cab—"

"So you are dating her!" Lavender squealed, scooting back on the couch excitedly and waving a triumphant finger at him. "You're dating her, and you don't even want to tell me! What's it like, Ronnie, tell me? Is she prettier? Does she snog better? Does she _shag_ —"

"Okay, that's enough," said Weasley loudly, reaching toward Lavender again to try to seize her wrist and escort her to the door. Her challenge had made him blush, no lie, and the faster he got her out of his apartment, the faster he could work on not picturing Granger naked, in his bed, writhing under him... _God, the thought's pleasant_... He shook his head to bring himself back to his own living room, focusing his gaze on Lavender, who was now within reach again. He grabbed her two shoulders and steadied her, keeping her from leaning off too much to any side, to make sure she would listen to him. "If you'll just let me take you down to the lobby, I'll call a cab to get you home."

"She's going to get real tired of you soon, Weasley, you know that?" Lavender giggled meanly, oblivious to every word he'd said. "Pretty soon, she's going to realize just how awful and ugly and imperfect you are, and she's going to leave you. And then you're going to want to come running back to me, aren't you? And I'm going to let you, because I know I'm the best you're ever going to get."

"Lavender, get out," cautioned Weasley in a low voice, trying to keep her insults from rooting in his brain, but knowing full well they'd keep his stomach churning until well into the AM. "This isn't a joke. I want you to get out of my flat. Now."

"Okay!" squealed Lavender, her pitch breaking, and she pulled herself up from the couch and skipped toward the door. When she turned around to face him, it was with a wild, revolting grin that made Weasley want to push her out the door already. "But just because I know that I'm gonna be here sooner than either of us expects. You know as well as I do you haven't got a chance with anyone better with me, Ronald Weasley. Call me when you realize it."

And with that, she exited the flat and slammed the door shut. Weasley didn't bother checking after her to see she was staggering safely down the stairs. He remained doubled over on his couch, cradling his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut to try to silence the foul black voices Lavender had set loose again in his mind.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a necessary disclaimer, suffice it to say that I don't own the rights to any of the songs mentioned here— but for a full chapter experience, I recommend you give them a listen as they appear. :)

Ron was sifting through the boxes of secondhand records on sale that stood, filled to the brim, next to the glass door that led to the outdoor seating area of Remembrall Records. He liked spending idle afternoons here, getting his hands dusty with the old-fashioned jackets of the vinyls that often went for just a pound or two, or —if you were really lucky— fifty pence. Tonks knew him well, and sometimes joined him there to show him the great picks from the boxes, rare records that someone had just dropped off at the shop or old ones whose editions she hadn't even known existed. She liked his appreciation for music, and she liked that he wasn't a snob about it: Ron had never bought anything at Remembrall that wasn't secondhand.

"Force of habit," he'd told Tonks once. She knew the story: Ginny had told her over coffee that the Weasleys had never been particularly _comfortable_ , and growing up, most of what they received (being the two youngest) was secondhand. Tonks certainly believed that, but she was also sure that there was another part to it: Ron seemed to like when his belongings had a story to them, and nothing carried quite a story like a used record. All those songs could've played such parts, had such meanings in people's lives— a song they'd danced to with their spouse, a song they liked to listen to on good days, a song that'd carried them through a dark time... Ron himself knew how deeply a song could be tied to a life, and he liked his records secondhand because they allowed him to live, unknowingly, bits and pieces of the lives of many others.

"You've got me pegged for a romantic," he'd said to Tonks when she'd told him her hypothesis, but she knew she was right. And he knew, too.

However, he was distracted from his browsing when the door opened, letting some of the chilly fall breeze from outside into the warm shop, and laughter floated up to his ears from whoever had just entered the store.

"What was it we drank today, Ginny, remind me?"

"Russian Caravan," a voice responded, one Ron recognized as his sister's. "It's a blend."

"I'm just glad they brought it in a teapot," chimed in a dreamy voice, which Ron could guess was Luna. "I find it much more charming to drink tea when it's from porcelain."

"I hate to dash your dream, Luna, but that was ceramic," Tonks said as she passed by.

"Materials can be what you want them to," Luna said, and Ron could almost picture her puzzling smile as she said it. "It's all just atoms, isn't it?"

Ron decided this was a good place to jump in: "As a physicist, Luna, I consider that analysis to be quite solid."

He looked at his sister and Luna, and mentally smacked himself for not identifying their third companion earlier: Granger. Clad in a light brown sweater that reached her mid-thigh, black leggings and fuzzy boots, and a matching maroon knit scarf and cap, Granger looked a dream in fall colors.

"See? And I didn't have to be a physicist for it," Luna said contentedly, and gave Ron a weird little curtsy as she headed for the exit. Ginny laughed briefly and smacked Ron playfully on the shoulder, sibling-style, before running out after her. "Hermione, you coming?" she called as she was halfway to the exit.

"I'll catch up!" Granger called back, and Ginny exited the shop with a knowing smile on her face. Once her friends were gone, she turned to him and smiled as way of greeting: "Weasley."

He was back to that persona, it seemed. "Granger," he said back with a nod. "I can't believe Luna gave me a curtsy and you wouldn't."

"Well, Luna does have in common with you the fact that you both know lots about atoms, so maybe that's the prerequisite for a curtsy," Granger smirked, and stepped around him to take a look at a box behind him.

 _She's getting good at this_ , Weasley thought, realizing Granger somehow always managed to face up to him. He shook his head a couple of times and pivoted to look at her again. Her fingers were separating record jackets from one another, adopting the same look of concentration she bore when reading.

"Listen to a lot of music, Granger?"

"Not what you'd expect," she replied, moving on to the next box and without looking up at Weasley.

Weasley followed her around the secondhand table, his gaze more on her than the records he was grabbing at. "Like anything here?"

"Oh, a few things here and there," smirked Granger, moving on to another box.

 _Dammit, she still won't look_ up, thought Weasley as he moved to keep up with her. "Like what things?"

Finally, she stopped and tilted her chin up to look him full in the eye. The unexpectedness took him aback, and he unconsciously leaned back a bit before remembering herself and painting a smirk on his own face to match hers.

"I'm sure this is what you wanted to hear all along, Weasley, but I actually don't know a lot of the stuff here. _A lot_."

"Look at that, Hermione Granger, admitting she doesn't know everything. That's a first!"

"Oh, be quiet, 'atoms-can-be-anything'," she laughed, and returned to browsing.

Weasley smiled at her quip too, then looked at her in silence as she perused the records. Suddenly, an idea popped into his mind: "Well, Granger, if you don't know a lot here, why don't I show you?"

"What are you, some knight-in-shining-armor when it comes to music taste?" she quipped again, but she'd looked up, and she was looking at him. He took this as a good sign, and continued animatedly.

"Got anything to do in the next hour or so?"

"Not really."

"Splendid! Okay, here's what we're going to do." He was practically bouncing off the floor now, he was so excited. "Granger, you pick three records from these boxes. And you show me one song from each record. And I do the same."

"What are we doing here, expanding musical horizons?" she said, but there was definitely a glint of interest in her eyes.

"Sure, _that_ , Ms. Wordy, if that's how you wanna say it— but there's really quite no way to get to know someone like listening to what _they_ like to listen to. And this is the chance of a lifetime, Granger— who wouldn't want to get to know _me_?" he said, and stroke a mock model pose.

"Oh, get over yourself," Granger laughed, pulling his arms down from behind his head and on his hip as he put up mock resistance (but secretly delighted in how her small hands grabbed at his).

"So are you down?"

"You're on," Granger said, and that launched it.

Weasley and Granger zoomed around the table, fingering through the records at practically breakneck speeds, pulling out records and sweeping their eyes over the jackets to find songs to show the other. Occasionally, they'd bump into one another in their trips around the table, at which point they'd just break out laughing and continue hurrying along to keep looking. Finally, they emerged from the secondhand table with three records each cradled in their arms, looking triumphantly at the other.

"Ready, Granger?"

"Don't think _you_ are, Weasley."

Records in hand, they headed toward the back of the store, where Tonks had a small, closed room with a record player in it. She usually used it for quality control with the secondhand records —she played them to make sure they were good enough to sell, no fatal scratches or skips—, but she let some of her favorite patrons in sometimes to test out secondhand records they were interested in or just wanted to listen to while studying. Weasley, of course, was the most enthusiastic and most frequent user of Tonks's little room.

They went in and he closed the door behind them. Granger looked around the room: it looked a bit like a recording booth at a music studio, except there were no windows or microphones, and only a frayed armchair in one corner and, in the other, a little table with a battered-looking record player.

"Classy, Weasley," she remarked, taking a few spinning steps inside the room. "Do you often bring girls to rooms with carpets up the walls?"

"They're not carpets," Weasley defended the room, "it's sound insulation; the rest of the shop can't hear us. So don't worry if your music taste is shite, no one else will know but me."

"Bold words, Weasley, considering how long you looked at that *NSYNC record in the bins."

"*NSYNC is _defensible_ ," Weasley argued, but Granger had already taken a seat in the armchair and was beckoning him toward the record player in the corner. "Oh, no no, guests first," he said, marching over to the armchair and pulling her out of it.

"Fine, but _only_ because you didn't say 'ladies first'," Granger said with an eyeroll, and began pulling her first record out of its jacket.

"Close call, then," joked Weasley, but Granger had turned her full attention to placing the disc on the record player and carefully setting the needle on the second lead-in stripe.

"Mozart's _Klavierkonzert_ number 21, second movement, 'Andante'," Granger announced like a sportscaster introducing an inning. The record began spinning.

Weasley struggled to hear much for the first few seconds, but then, a violin melody began streaming toward his ears.

"Granger, don't tell me you picked all classical music—"

"Shh!" Granger silenced him with a murderous glance, and Weasley fell quiet, grumbling slightly under his breath. However, the music soon worked its spell on him: as the violins climbed and more instruments joined in the melody, he relaxed back into the armchair, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to listen. The melody was beautiful: simple, crystal-clear, and beautifully complemented by the instruments supporting it.

Still, classical music was not something Weasley was accustomed to, nor was he particularly patient. About a minute and a half into the piece, he began shifting in his seat: "Granger, when is this going to be over?"

"Shhhh! You're going to want to listen to this," Granger gave him a sly smile, and folded her hands over her lap, from where she sat on the edge of the little table, and closed her eyes. Weasley was about to protest more, but then he heard it: the violins faded out and the piece made a seamless transition to a piano, the delicate keys now carrying the melody as pristinely as the violins had. That was enough for him: he fell back into his armchair, utterly transfixed, convinced that that was the single most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He rode out the rest of the piece like that, listening more intently to follow the piano through its climbs and dives— and, at a point, fixed his gaze upon Granger, who kept her eyes closed and swayed lightly in time with the tempo. Unable to tear his eyes away from the expression of profound happiness that reigned over her face, he once again took in how beautiful she was.

The piano rode out its final notes and the piece ended. Granger opened her eyes slowly, as if coming out of a trance, and Weasley quickly shot his gaze elsewhere, dissimulating the fact that he'd been staring at her fixedly for the latter half of the piece. She turned to the record player and lifted the arm before the record had time to transition to the next piece.

"Well? Glad it's over now?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

Weasley was momentarily breathless. "Granger, this isn't usually my style—"

"—but it's the most beautiful thing you've ever heard."

"—but it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," Weasley agreed, and Granger gave a happy little laugh and a small, delighted clap of her hands.

"Good! I'm glad you liked it."

"Well, now I feel bad about what _I'm_ gonna play you after _that_ , but you're about to be introduced to some real music, Granger."

"Well, that sounds awfully pretentious," Granger snorted, now her turn to settle on the armchair. "Telling Mozart he's not real music."

"What does he care? He's dead," Weasley deadpanned, now taking his own first record out of its sleeve and placing it on the record player. "Ladies and... well, ladies–"

"Don't call me a 'lady'—"

"—in conjunction with Remembrall Records, Ronald Bilius Weasley is proud to present Joy Division's 'Love Will Tear Us Apart'."

He looked up to the ceiling and smiled at the familiar grungy guitar that twanged out now, air-guitaring in time with each new guitar riff that summed itself to the background rhythm. He air-drummed the initial drum section, and then dissolved into intensely dorky dancing with the advent of the principal melody.

"This is... intriguing," Granger commented, furrowing her brows as if that would somehow help her listen better. "Ooh, and that's a weird voice, it sounds so far away" she said as soon as the vocalist entered the song.

"Don't give commentary, Granger, just enjoy it," Weasley reprimanded her, still softly moving around on the balls of his feet in a weak attempt at suave dancing.

Granger rolled her eyes affectionately, but relented: she'd asked for his same silence during the violin concerto, now it was her turn. She was surprised to find herself tapping her foot in double-time with the song's tempo, and even shimmying her shoulders to match Weasley's terrible dancing. When he noticed her start to move, he broke out into a grin, and the terrible dancing only intensified, making Granger break out in laughter.

"Stand up, Granger!" he invited her, but she shook her head.

"I don't dance."

"Sucks for you," he shrugged, and dove into the chorus with a deliberately-terrible singalong and some purposefully-awful dance moves, which only made Granger laugh harder.

When the song ended, Weasley's hair was tousled and his face was blotched read, his chest heaving. "Well," he panted through a wide grin, "what'd ya think?"

"Delightfully odd," Granger delivered the verdict. _Just like you, Weasley_ , she thought to herself.

"I'll take that as a good sign. We might yet make something out of you, Granger."

"Oh, be quiet," she said, now walking over to take her second record out of its sleeve. "You don't have a right to berate my music taste if you don't know this next one."

"It better be good," Weasley clicked his tongue, sitting back on the armchair, taking great pleasure in the warmth Granger had left behind, and nestling comfortably into the dents in the couch her own body had made.

"Ever heard of the Four Seasons?"

"As in Frankie Valli and?"

"As in _Vivaldi_ , you uncultured thickhead," Granger sighed, shaking her head as she set the record on the player. "Violin Concerto in F. Minor, first movement. Better known as 'Winter 1'. Anyway, some say this is as close as classical music gets to heavy metal."

"Wonder what they were smoking," Weasley remarked offhandedly, and Granger pierced him through with her stare again before she set the needle on the record.

Again, it took Weasley a few moments to hear anything, and once he did, it was so faint and dissonant that he was compelled to give Granger more snark; however, she was giving him a stern look, and he remembered how much he'd liked the last piece— what was there to say this one would be different? He'd never admit it to her, but he trusted Granger's taste.

His faith paid off: after an introduction that, _yes_ , somehow sounded _exactly_ like winter, the dissonance soon collected and climbed into a glorious crescendo, laden with layers upon layers of nuanced strings, which all seemed to be simultaneously in a fight and in an alliance. It was gorgeous. It was brutal. It was... _goddammit, Granger_ , it was as close as classical music got to heavy metal.

When the crescendo eased and the piece was again plunged into a single-string melody, Weasley took the opportunity to look at Granger again. Her eyes were closed for this one too, and her hands were twitching back and forth as if she was the orchestra conductor. _God, that's adorable_ , he thought, smiling to himself as he saw her hands flow and sway in midair and gradually pick up the pace as the piece set up for another crescendo. This one was even more intense: the melody slid as if on a roller coaster, engulfing Weasley and propelling him back into his seat with the force of a whole string ensemble, rumbling through his eardrums as the piece came to its thundering, marvelous conclusion.

"Still wondering what they were smoking?" snorted Granger, seeing him nailed to his seat when the piece had concluded.

"Now I'm wondering what _Vivaldi_ was smoking to compose something like that," mumbled Weasley, rising to launch into his second turn. "Granger, we're gonna play something from dear old Britain now. Going local, ya feel?"

"That to me means Elgar and Purcell," she shrugged as she settled into the armchair, also relishing in the warmth he'd left behind, like he had (unknowingly to her) done as well.

"You're speaking in tongues," declared Weasley firmly as he lowered the record down onto the player. "I'm sorry you're stuck in the Renaissance or something—"

"Elgar is quite modern, actually, he lived until 1934—"

"—but I meant The Clash," Weasley finished, stepping back and looking pleased as a steady stream of drums began rolling out. "Punk! Best thing we've ever exported to the world, and that's saying something what with all the imperialism we did." Now a shrill guitar had emerged to accompany the drumset, and Weasley leaped with delight as he yelled out the song's name: "'I Fought the Law!'"

"Masterful lyricism," Granger said as she listened, "just repeating the title words over and over again and mixing in some other phrases there."

"C'mon, Granger, you listen to punk for the _guitar_ ," Weasley said, banging his head enthusiastically in time with the song. "What're lyrics to you, anyway? All you listen to are instruments."

"And you liked them, so shut up."

"Yeah, well, if you shut up and actually listen to this, maybe you'll like it too."

And sure enough, Granger had to admit the song had a certain punch to it, and she was even certain that her heart had begun beating against her chest in step with the beat the drums were banging out. Weasley was doing another ridiculous dance, marching around the room and jerking his body with each fall of the drumbeat, which Granger laughed at delightedly and partially joined into herself with a tilting back and forth of her own head, mildly analogous to Weasley's earlier headbanging. By the end, her whole body was spasming rhythmically with the song, her head whipping back and forth, her toes tapping rhythmically, her shoulders bouncing unstoppably.

"Good, huh?" Weasley panted again once the song had concluded. "Even if punk-litical commentary isn't much your thing, you've gotta admit the drums are amazing."

"God, that pun was awful," Granger groaned. "So awful, in fact, that I'm withholding judgment on this one."

"Don't play with me, Granger, I saw you dancing."

"Fine, it was very good," she smiled at him as she got up to play her last record.

Weasley, taking her place, leaned back into the plush armchair and settled his hands behind his head. "What's next, Granger? More music with no lyrics?" he quipped, playing at her comment on his last song.

"Very funny," she said, lowering the needle, "but there _are_ words to this one."

"Who would've thought?" Weasley said playfully.

"There's a catch, though. They're not _English_ words."

"Goddammit, Granger," it was Weasley's turn to groan now, "leave it to you to make something like _lyrics_ all smart-ish."

"Oh, nobody listens to opera for the lyrics," Granger said, trying to emulate him again, but stopping to push it when a dramatic, low violin tune began.

"Opera?" Weasley asked, dumbfounded.

"Maria Callas, the great diva, singing the 'Habanera' from _Carmen_ ," Granger said matter-of-factly.

"Great, like I know what any of those words mean," grumbled Weasley, but he sat and listened. Whoever this Callas woman was, she could _sing_ : much like the pristine, crystalline melodies in Granger's first piece, her voice cut clearly through the musical accompaniment and took charge of the piece. Weasley couldn't understand a lick of French, but even he was not oblivious to how profoundly her voice resonated with emotion.

"What is she saying?" he asked absentmindedly.

He did not expect Granger to come up with an answer, but he wasn't surprised when she did: "This opera is about an extremely beautiful Roma girl, from a caravan of travelers, who's got all the men after her. She's talking about how love is like a rebel bird, and how her heart only really loves whoever gives her the cold shoulder."

"So basically that men should play hard to get."

"Oh, how crude, Weasley— but that's basically it."

"Hey, this sounds like a tango," Weasley said suddenly, standing up from the armchair.

"Oh my god, you know absolutely nothing about tango either, then."

"Don't be such a snob— it sounds like whatever I imagine tango sounds like," Weasley said, marching up to her. He extended a hand forth in mock gallantry.

"What are you doing?" Granger laughed nervously.

"Dance a tango with me, Granger," he said, bowing in jest and putting his hand out to her again.

"It's not a tango—"

"Technicalities! Are we dancing or not, woman?"

Granger gave him a contemptuous look, but placed her hand in his nonetheless. He settled his other hand on her waist, allowing her to place her own on his shoulder, and shot the hand holding hers forward in a sharp arrow point. He stepped strongly toward the front, then whipped Granger around to face the other direction, and repeated the same sharp steps.

"This is not how you dance the tango!" Granger said through laughter, but Weasley would have none of it: he kept repeating the same abrupt movements, jerking Granger back and forth and keeping a mock-serious smolder on his face as he did so. As the song ended, he dipped her, and their faces hung dangerously close for a moment of tension before she broke away and brushed her sweater off.

"You're truly something, Weasley," she said with mirth, walking over to the record player to take off the record. "First you ask me to tango to a song that isn't even a tango, and then you tango in a way that isn't even the tango."

"I prefer to call myself an innovator," Weasley said, meeting her at the record player with his last vinyl in hand. He waved it at her: "Last song of the afternoon!"

"Very exciting," Granger said without irony as she turned to go back to the armchair, but Weasley's hand held her back.

"No sitting down for this one, Granger. You're gonna wanna dance."

"I told you, Weasley, I don't dance."

"You just did!"

"That wasn't a real tango, so it doesn't count as a dance. _I don't dance_."

"Listen to this, and you're gonna want to," he said as he lowered down the needle to the first song on the track. He continued to hold on to her wrist as a rough guitar pushed out of the speaker. "To close off our afternoon of— what'd you call it earlier?"

"Of expanding our musical horizons—"

"Yes, precisely; to close off our afternoon of _expanding our musical horizons_ , here is 'Henrietta' by The Fratellis."

A drumroll punctuated his words perfectly, and soon a bouncing, bobbing rhythm filled the room. The only word Granger could find to describe it was 'ridiculous'— and yet, there was something great about that 'ridiculous.'

"Dance, Granger, dance!" yelled Weasley, who was already flapping his bent arms in what looked like an unholy child of the chicken-step and the twist. Reticent at first, Granger made for the armchair, but found that even her feet were moving in time with the song. _Oh, what the hell_ , she thought, and swiveled back to look at Weasley before launching into a mimic of the same awful step he was parading around. He looked positively giddy, and Granger was soon laughing merrily, her inhibitions long left behind.

"Give us a kiss and maybe we can go out..." Weasley sang cheerily out of tune as the chorus remounted, exaggerated puckering his lips at Granger, who pushed him away playfully and waved her arms around her body as way of dancing. She was having more fun than she could've amounted for: she couldn't remember when the last time she'd let loose like this was, and she hadn't expected Weasley, of all people, to be the one giving her such a great time.

Their dancing morphed to frantic stomping as the guitar banged out its final chords and the drums clashed frenetically; at last, when the song was over, they both withdrew laughing— sweating and red-faced, but giddy.

Weasley took the record off the player and put it back in its jacket. He caught his breath for a few moments before he turned to Granger, who was also pulling air into her lungs after expelling it all with the joint effort of dancing and laughing.

"So, Granger— verdict?"

"Thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyable," Granger said with a faint chuckle, wiping a fringe of sweat off her brow.

"Would I be correct to assume that that judgment can apply to the whole afternoon as well?"

Granger pretended to give it deep thought for a few seconds, before announcing in a jokingly serious voice: "That assumption is valid, Weasley."

"Hear, hear!" Weasley said, and made a trumpet out of his hands to toot through in celebration of this.

Granger laughed at this, but then allowed her laughter to die down as she looked Weasley straight in the eye, teeming with honesty. "With all seriousness, Weasley, I had a fantastic afternoon. _Thank you_ for this."

"I had a grand time too," said Weasley, suddenly noticing Granger's body was much closer to his than it had been a moment ago. He took a step further to shorten the distance between them, cupped her face tenderly, and gazed into her eyes with the same candor. When he spoke again, his voice was devoid of all snark or mockery, soft and fully genuine: "Go out with me, Granger."

She smiled back softly, then returned to their customary cheek: "No Frisbee to the face before you ask me this time, Weasley?"

"That was Neville—"

"Yes, Weasley," Granger cut him off, raising her hand to place on top of his, which was still on her cheek. "Yes, I'll go out with you."


	19. Chapter 19

The pub was dim-lit, crowded, and stank of stale beer. Granger was horrified: in her impossibly neat, dry-cleaned pencil skirt and button-down, she stuck out like a sore thumb in a place she never thought she'd find herself on a Saturday night. Across from her, Weasley seemed right in his element: leaning back in his chair, his tie loose and shirt undone, a shock of unkempt red hair crowning him, it wouldn't have surprised her if he'd swung his legs and placed his feet on the table.

Smirking at her, as if reveling in her discomfort, he waved a grumpy-looking waiter over: "Abe! Would you please get me some bangers and mash and an IPA?"

Granger's shock only grew: he was on a first-name basis with the personnel? Abe nodded sullenly and turned to Granger, who froze for a second before remembering she was supposed to order: "Yes, ah... I'll have the fish and chips and a glass of water, please."

Abe nodded again, and wordlessly marched toward the kitchen. Weasley looked to Granger with a teasing smile: "Never took you for such a bore, Granger— really? Fish and chips? But then again, you _are_ wearing a pencil skirt to a pub..."

"Can it, Weasley," Granger hissed. "You begged me to be here."

"Where else would you be on a Saturday night? Library?" he teased her again, and she flushed. He toned it down: "I'm sorry— I mean, we can leave if you want to..."

"No, no, it's okay," Granger huffed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It's good for me to... step out of my comfort zone."

 _And that's putting it kindly_ , thought Weasley, taking a sip from the dark brown bottle Abe had set in front of him. He watched Granger awkwardly sip from her glass, making a face at it and mumbling something that sounded like 'this is dirty'. Realizing how uncomfortable she must be, he decided to shift the conversation back toward charted territory for her. "So, _A Winter's Tale_."

"Excuse me?"

" _A Winter's Tale_? Shakespeare? Is that where your name comes from?"

She smiled as she took the glass to her lips again, and her shoulders lost tension. "You're familiar with it."

"Well, I did secondary school."

"Good try, Weasley, but the secondary school curriculum doesn't usually include _A Winter's Tale_ in its Shakespeare selection."

 _Damn it_ , he thought; _leave it to Granger to know the British schooling system's literature curriculum_. "Fine, I Googled it."

"Well, that's flattering," Granger said, raising her eyebrows. "Took time to do your homework."

"What can I say? When you get a date with the most beautiful PhD in the uni, you'd better know your stuff."

She blushed again, and Weasley smiled to himself: he'd gotten past the first line of defense. He decided to keep going down the conversational path he knew she'd be comfortable with: "So, working on anything interesting lately, aside from the project for Shacklebolt?"

Her eyes sparkled, and she finally set her glass back on the table: "God, I'm so glad you asked. It's been so long since anyone did. As a matter of fact, I was working on cataloging a set of Celtic scrolls we found a couple months ago— it's fascinating." Weasley watched her light up as she talked passionately about her work: she was a wholly different person from the demure, reserved woman who had been sitting across from him just seconds ago. He almost didn't notice his head resting on his hand as he watched her talk, staring at her, until she cleared her throat: "Am I boring you?"

"God, no, not at all," he said hurriedly. "All the contrary, actually. Tell me more?"

"I think I've talked enough," laughed Granger, and —Weasley noticed happily— she seemed a lot more open now, relaxed into her chair and smiling genuinely. "Besides, the project got put off because we couldn't find a middle scroll that was absolutely essential to the investigation— hence why I'm doing this PR thing."

"Lucky me," Weasley smiled, "otherwise, I find it hard to believe you would've talked to me."

"Oh, don't be melodramatic, it hardly suits you," Granger gave him a light kick under the table. "Your turn, Weasley. What are physicists up to these days?"

"Well— a lot, actually," he said, and he felt the familiar flame that took over him whenever he broached the subject of his work. He wasn't at the top of his field like Granger, and he knew the other physicists often complained about his work ethic, his mess, his lack of discipline. Hell, McLaggen had even taken it upon himself to highlight that as much as possible, trying to make it his downfall. But, in his eyes, that didn't matter: he felt such a furor when in the lab, chin-deep in what he most loved, that he didn't know how they could expect him to busy himself with such trivial things like organizing his files. He felt that same ardor blossom in his chest now as he talked to Granger about it (though, as he looked at her turn all of his attention to him, his heart simmered with more than fervor for physics): "A little while ago, a NASA study from down in the South Pole resurfaced. It's crazy— they recorded particle behavior that defies all of the earthly laws of physics. They think it may be evidence of a parallel universe, where time runs backwards. I mean, it's crazy —even Einstein himself shied away from trying to understand time, he chose only to define it as something you measure with a clock—, but we can't help but be intrigued—"

"A parallel universe? Seriously?" Granger cut him off, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and staring intently at him. She seemed genuinely interested, something that greatly delighted Weasley. "How would that even work?"

"Well, there are two big possibilities," Weasley began. He could tell Granger was accustomed to doing the lecturing (even if she didn't like it), not to receiving it, but she seemed to be enjoying it. "The first has to do with the Big Bang: there's this theory that the universe is always expanding, and when it stops expanding somewhere, a Big Bang occurs and a universe is generated; however, expansion continues in other places, and whenever it stops there, a Big Bang occurs too and another universe pops into existence."

"Like endless branches of a tree, just blooming anew at each end?"

"Leave it to a linguist to come up with a better analogy for it than any physicist," Weasley complimented her, and Granger smiled: there was nothing quite like the rush of understanding something well, even once you were such a professional like she was. "I'm fonder of the second possibility myself, honestly..."

"Well, what is it?" Granger urged him, hooked by his explanation and eager to understand more, her eyes ablaze with the wild spark she reserved for the parts of her work she liked the most.

"Well, uh—" said Weasley, having to regain his bearings after getting distracted by how excited she seemed. "It's the 'many worlds' theory. According to this one, every single possible outcome to every single possible situation (be it whether the Greeks win the Trojan War or whether you decide to brush your teeth tonight) actually happens, it just happens in a separate universe. That means there's an infinite amount of universes out there."

"You're telling me out there is a universe where everything is the same, but I'm wearing red instead of blue?"

"Yep, and there's also a universe out there where I've finally finished my PhD because I've stopped pondering silly things like multiverses and learned to clean up a file cabinet instead," quipped Weasley, and —to his surprised delight— Granger laughed.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" she told him, and the look in her eyes had changed, softened: she was now looking at him with intent curiosity, as if she was seeing him in a whole new light. "You don't need a doctorate to know that. I bet all those stuffy physicists are just jealous."

He couldn't believe his ears— Hermione Granger, darling of academic convention, bashing the very scientists that embodied everything he thought she valued most. Maybe they weren't so different after all. He felt his ears burning, a surefire sign he was blushing: "That's high praise, coming from you."

"You shouldn't undermine yourself just because McLaggen and his goons make you believe you're worth less," Granger said, swirling around the melting ice in her glass with a straw. "Like I said, you're brilliant." _And I like brilliance_ , she thought, suddenly noticing how flattering that half-undone shirt was on him.

A silence ensued as they both looked at each other, broken only when Abe came back and set down their plates. Hermione cleared her throat to diffuse the awkwardness of the broken spell, and took to her fish and chips with her fork and knife, attempting to return to casual conversation. "So, Ronald," she said, startling him —she'd never called him by his first name before—, "tell me: in another universe, did I agree to go out with you sooner?"

"Oh, in more than one," Weasley said nonchalantly, leaning back into his chair. "No matter the universe, you couldn't help but be drawn to my magnetic personality and my striking good looks..." She laughed, remembering that exact phrase from the day she'd first waltzed into his lab to introduce herself and he'd saved her from McLaggen's clutches. He smiled dimly, remembering the same instant, before dropping the joking tone: "But, in all seriousness, Hermione Granger, I think we would've met in any universe."

"Well, according to the 'many worlds' theory, you _do_ have to account for at least a universe in which we didn't—"

"Oh, technicalities," he groaned, "I'm trying to be smooth here. But I'm serious."

"In any universe?"

"In any universe. Even in one where we go to some barmy wizard school instead of uni and you're the brightest witch our age and I'm a clumsy git who keeps screwing up whatever he points his wand at."

She laughed fully now, throwing her head back and flashing him a full smile: "Ronald, that's ridiculous."

"But I'm serious," Weasley said, daring to inch his hand closer to hers. Their fingertips touched, and she looked him straight in the eye, feeling the electric jolt that his touch seemed to carry. "In another universe, Hermione Granger, any universe, you're the only girl I would've wanted to meet."


	20. Chapter 20

"Can we start yet?" Draco sneered, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. "Blimey, Granger, you've never made me wait so long for a conversation."

"That's because this isn't just _any_ conversation," Granger replied, looking jerkily around the library. "This is for the project."

"I don't see why that's keeping us."

"We're waiting for someone else," Granger said, and suddenly her nervous surveillance of the library made sense.

"Is it Zabini? Because if it's Zabini, I don't understand why he's so late—" Draco trailed off as Granger's guest finally made his way to their table, a brilliant grin across his face that dissolved as soon as he spotted Draco: _Potter_.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Harry asked as he sat down next to Granger, a scowl lining his expression.

"It's _such_ a pleasure to see you too, Potter," Draco said, narrowing his eyes into slits to glare at Harry through.

"I thought you said we were meeting Neville," Harry said, already gathering his things to leave again. But Granger sent out a hand and pushed him back into his seat; he looked at her, bewildered.

"It was the only way to get you to be here," she gave him an apologetic look. She kept her arm across his chest until he relaxed, leaned back into his chair, and crossed his arms: he wasn't going anywhere.

"Granger, what's this about?" Draco said, his tone dangerously soft.

"You said it would've all been all right if you'd talked, right? Well, here you are," she gestured vaguely at Harry, and both men's eyes flew wide open when they realized what it was about.

Harry pushed his chair back from the table: "No way am I—"

Draco cleared his throat at the same time, looking away: "I don't think this will—"

"Come on, both of you!" said Granger insistently, and both men stopped shifting uncomfortably and paused to look at her. She looked at them both sternly: "There are clearly issues here that you haven't talked through. Now, you're both my friends, like it or not, and I'd like for my friends to get along so I don't have to feel guilty about hanging out with either of you. I can't force you to talk, but I suggest you do."

Silence hung in the air before Harry broke it dully: "This isn't about the project, is it."

"No, Harry, it's obviously not," snapped Granger, exasperated.

Harry allowed the silence to pervade for a few more instants before he cleared his throat and looked straight at Draco: "I guess you want me to start with an apology."

"Not unless you mean it," said Draco, his voice shaking.

"I'm sorry for...

"For what?"

"I'm sorry for... for what I did."

" _Say it, Potter_."

"Alright, then, _I'm sorry for kissing you_!" burst Harry, bringing his open palm down on the table. Surprised at his outburst, even himself, he collected himself and held his wrist as he continued: "I'm sorry. I did it impulsively. I guess I had all these conflicting feelings about you, because I hated you, but I _liked_ hating you, if that makes any sense. I was a dumb teenager. I didn't know how to channel that, and I guess I put it into a kiss."

"Stating the obvious," said Draco sarcastically, but his eyes bore no humor.

"You don't need to believe me, but I _am_ sorry. And for ignoring you after. I didn't know how to deal with it after I'd done it."

"And you think _I_ did?" Draco said, wiping at his eyes frantically to conceal the tears that were now collecting there. "You think I didn't spend nights awake thinking about that kiss, turning it over in my mind? Pining after you because I thought it meant something to you—"

"It _did_ mean something to me—"

"Not enough," Draco cut him off, giving up on trying not to cry. "Not enough, Potter. Not enough to treat me like a human being, and not ignore me, and not give me insecurities to haunt me for years after— that I was disgusting, that I wasn't good enough for you."

"I get that," said Harry gently, "and I'm sorry for not seeing it, but I had my own to sort through. I'm not saying that justifies it, I'm just asking you to see that I was also afraid and uncertain about what I'd done and what that meant."

"Were you experimenting? Using me for a lab rat? Because you ran off to Ginevra right after—"

"I didn't _run off to Ginny_ after," Harry said in daggers, and Draco shut up. "The facts are that I didn't date anyone until two years after the kiss, Malfoy. I used that time to think things through. I used it to process my emotions, and to grow. I don't know what you're trying to frame me as, but I wasn't some inconsiderate player snogging people to see whether he liked it. The kiss _did_ mean something, even if that something wasn't exactly romantic, and I had to think it over too. I thought about it, and I know that while I did it I cut you off and that was wrong, but when I was on the other side, it still took time before I cared about anyone enough to date them. And that someone was Ginny, who I've known since we were kids. So yes, what I did wasn't right, but you have no right to push me as this playboy, arsehole figure you seem to think I am."

Draco brooded silently for a few moments before he looked up, his eyes still watery, and spoke hoarsely: "Thank you. That clears things up."

"It doesn't justify it," Harry said, softening his demeanor. "But that's what it was like to me. And I hope we can move past it, and if we can't be friends, at least be _friendly_."

"For Granger's sake," said Draco, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Sure, for Hermione's sake, but for ours too," said Harry, giving Granger a gentle nod. "I think we deserve more than having to live hating each other. And you're a good person, Malfoy. I don't have to be in your close circle to see it."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, steadying his breath before he dared open them again, and when he reopened them he was met with the sight of Harry's extended hand across the table from him, that careless smile that he so often bore tilting his features. "Friends?"

Reluctantly, but genuinely, Draco extended his hand as well and gave Harry's a brief squeeze, allowing their hands to linger in their clasp as he said: "Friends."

"If that'll be all, Hermione, I have football practice to get to," said Harry, giving Granger a brief hug around her shoulders and giving Draco a curt, but not unfriendly, nod before he left the library.

Granger sat stunned at what had just happened, and Draco hid his face in his hands briefly before placing a hand over his heart to steady his breath once again. He suddenly startled Granger when he reached a hand across the table and took his.

"You're a good friend, Granger," he said, eyeing her quizzically. "I don't always _get_ how you work, but you are."

She gave him a smile in return and arranged her hand in his to give it a friendly, reassuring squeeze. They smiled at each other across the table, hands still loosely framed within one another, a physical reminder of this odd, supportive friendship they'd forged. 

A sudden flash of white light from outside caught Granger's eye, and she let go of Draco's hand. She whipped her head to the left to see Rita Skeeter, her phone in hand, standing right outside the window their table was up against. Realizing she'd been caught, Skeeter gave them a shy wave and a wide grin, and then scampered off with her ugly white plastic purse flailing behind her.

"Who's that?" asked Draco with distaste.

"Rita Skeeter," said Granger with just as much disgust. "Head of PR for the University."

"Can't imagine what she'd want taking flash photography of us here," muttered Draco.

"Can't either, but she's a nasty woman, and she's got it out for me," snarled Granger, looking after where Skeeter had gone off to.

They stayed quiet for a few more moments before Draco clapped his hands to bring her back to attention, his expression infinitely more cheerful than just instants before: "So, Granger! This pub date with Weasley! Tell me everything."

Granger felt a rosy blush begin to creep onto her cheeks as she remembered how wonderful the last evening had been. For the remainder of the night, they'd enjoyed their dinner together, and he'd kept her laughing openly all throughout their meal. He'd walked her to her flat after that, and she'd pressed a small kiss to his cheek before retreating up the stairs and failing to keep her heart from pounding happily and her mind from wandering to _him_ the whole night. But to tell Draco, she'd have to start from the beginning.

"Well," she began, the same devious smile playing along her lips. "It all started when Weasley took me to this grimy little pub..."

* * *

Weasley lay back in his bed, phone pressed to his chest between his hands and his heart beating wildly. He hadn't been able to push Granger from his mind all day: he thought the feel of her lips grazing his cheek might just be permanently imprinted there, burnt scalding-hot like it was in his memory. After football practice, Harry had asked why he hadn't managed to stop a single goal and why he kept smiling like a git, so Ron —who, indeed, had been terrible today, so distracted was he with thoughts of the night before— had told him everything.

Harry had listened intently, his smile growing bigger the more Ron told him, unable to disguise how much he liked the fact that something seemed to be blossoming between his two friends. When Weasley had finished, all he'd said was an abrupt: "What are you waiting for? Call her!"

"I don't have her number!"

"That's easily fixed," Harry had said as he pulled out his phone, and had given Ron Granger's number.

He'd spent all evening after practice ogling those eleven antlike digits on his phone screen, so much he thought they may be printed permanently on his eyelids, since he saw them even when he closed his eyes. He'd debated whether to call her— was it too forward? How would she react? Would she recognize his voice? Would she think it was creepy that he'd gotten her number without her giving it to him? What if she just flat-out hung up?

However, he'd resolved to call her tonight, and _that_ he would do. He was gonna do it now— right before bed, when he didn't have any other menial tasks to excuse his putting the call off, when he thought she'd still be awake. He let himself wonder— what was she doing now? Was she in bed, just like him? Was she poring over some obscure text for her research? Was she —his heart leapt— waiting for his call, maybe?

That last thought did it, and his heart beat up in his throat, knowing he'd call her any minute now. However, before he did, he allowed himself to go on Twitter briefly to numb his nerves before pressing "dial" on what were arguably the most important eleven digits he'd ever come across. A bit of mindless scrolling should calm him, wouldn't it?

He swiped his thumb mindlessly up the screen, not really caring about much of what he was seeing but feeling his heartbeat slow down with the familiar boredom of an idle activity. The avatar of the University's official account, which he followed more out of duty than of interest, popped up in his feed. He didn't think much of it— he knew the PR department ran the account, and more often than not it was some cheesy publicity crap he could well do without. He kept scrolling, aiming to go past the University's post.

But his heart caught in his throat. Because, right under the University's avatar, there was a picture of Granger and Draco Malfoy sitting across from each other at a library table, holding hands and looking tenderly at one another. It was the caption that broke him: "Romance is budding at the University!" the dastardly Tweet proclaimed cheerfully, blissfully unaware of the damage it was inflicting.

Wordlessly, he went back to his phone app and felt his heart sting when those eleven digits stared back up at him, laughing nastily now rather than egging him on. 

He exited the contact, went back up his contact list, and wordlessly, feeling a pang of revolt, heartbreak, and disappointment mix in his stomach, he pressed the little "dial" icon right next to Lavender Brown's name.


	21. Chapter 21

Granger locked the door to her flat and exited it with her purse under her arm, careful that the key wouldn't chip the paint on the wall as she pulled it out abruptly— damn lock, it always stuck.

She made her way down the stairs and walked aimlessly toward Hogsmeade Lane, having nothing to do this morning. Her lecture wasn't for another two hours, but she hadn't wanted to stay in her apartment— she liked walking, and she always found it a much better respite for her thoughts. Which, since yesterday, had been racing at uncontrollable speeds.

After spilling everything to Draco, she'd realized that she hadn't ever felt this way— sure, Weasley drove her mad and he could be quite irritating, but then why had she giggled like a schoolgirl at that library table as she recounted her date? Why did her tongue still prickle with the aftertaste of his first name, and the desire to say it again? Why did she feel a furious blush begin to creep onto her cheeks when she remembered how close their legs had been under that pub table?

"Get a grip, Hermione," she told herself as she shook her head to keep herself from blushing again. God, if just _thinking_ about him made her react like this, she didn't even want to think about what seeing him again would be like. She hadn't seen him since that night, and she had to control herself before the next time she did, lest she began bumbling stupidly when she had him face to face again. That is, if he wanted to see her again... Her stomach dropped at the idea that he wouldn't. _He's busy_ , she thought to herself, _that's why he hasn't come knocking 'round_... But a nastier voice chimed in from the back of her mind: _It's Weasley, he's literally incapable of making himself scarce. He must be deliberately avoiding you..._

She continued striding with determination toward Hogsmeade Lane, desperate to push those awful nagging thoughts out of her mind: maybe she'd get some breakfast at the Three Broomsticks (Rosmerta knew her now, after all...), maybe she'd visit Tonks at Remembrall's (she thought she'd spotted a Joan Sutherland recording of _Lucia di Lammermoor_ in the pile, and she wanted to snag it), maybe she'd drop by the maths faculty to say hello to Ginny (she knew she'd appreciate a visit)...

She was so lost in her on-the-go mental to-do list that she hardly noticed Harry running behind her, calling her name like a maniac, until he finally reached her and almost bumped into her, pulling her cardigan to get her attention: "Hermione!"

"Harry?" Granger said, turning around to look at her friend, whose face was all blotchy from running.

"How was the call?" he asked.

"Call?"

"Yeah," Harry said, puzzled, "Ron said he was gonna call you. He didn't?"

Everything lit up for Granger: so he hadn't been avoiding her! In fact, he was going to call! The butterflies in her stomach fluttered practically into a flurry when she thought about how _maybe_ he hadn't called because he was too nervous— did that mean he liked her? Was he thinking, feeling, the same things that she was?

So swept up was she by this revelation that she didn't even answer Harry: she merely kissed his cheek and gave him a clumsy hug before setting off at a rapid pace toward Madam Puddifoot's. An idea had popped into her mind: she'd drop by Puddifoot's, get him a drink, and drop by his lab to ask him why he hadn't called— and maybe make sure, next time, he would. As she stood in line, ordering two chamomile teas to go for the second time this week, she couldn't help but smile: this was becoming _their_ thing, wasn't it? To even conceptualize an "us" made Granger excited— she thought she was far too old and far too mature to feel like this, but her heart was practically clamoring to burst out of her chest, and she actually kind of liked it.

She received the tray with the two cups of tea, thanked the barista, and set off on the familiar path toward the physics lab. She imagined the look on his face when she came in, and the smile that would inevitably split his features when he realized that he'd —again— brought him the drink that was beginning to become something of a joke between them. He'd love it. And, for some reason, thinking about that made Granger all the more eager to just get on there and _do it_.

Finally, her feet carried her over to the cobblestone right in front of the physics lab, and she took a few deep breaths, her mouth twitching with an incipient smile, as she prepared to go in and surprise him. How different this felt from the last time she'd stood outside this door! With a deep breath injecting courage into her, she pushed the door open and entered the lab.

Her smile melted when she looked over to the table in the far corner, where she knew Weasley to work. Sitting on the table, giggling and twiddling Weasley's hair between her fingers, was Lavender Brown. Weasley was saying something to her with a crooked smile on his face —something apparently hilarious, because the way Lavender was giggling didn't seem humanly possible— and leaning forward on the table by her, his elbows placed casually as if he was trying to be suave. Granger watched them talk, her heart dropping with every passing moment— and then Weasley leaned in and kissed her. A deep kiss that Lavender immediately returned enthusiastically, and that finally shattered Granger's heart.

But Granger, even when vulnerable, wasn't weak, and she was going to teach Weasley that lesson.

In a fury, she stormed over to Weasley's table, the tray of drinks gripped tightly between knuckles turned white from the effort. Weasley clearly hadn't seen her before, because when he drew away from Lavender and spotted Granger coming toward them, all the color drained from his face.

"Granger, I—" he began, but Granger wasn't going to give him the benefit of listening. Wordlessly, she grabbed one of the two cups from the tray, removed the lid, and poured the scalding hot liquid over Weasley's head. Deaf to his cries and to Lavender's squeals, she turned their back on them and marched out of the lab, careful not to let anyone see the hot, angry tears that were beginning to collect at the corners of her eyes.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning— some angst and discussion of insecurities.

"Ron, I say this from the heart, as your sister who loves you, but you are an absolute, blundering idiot."

Ron threw his hands up in exasperated defeat. He was sitting across from Ginny at the flat she shared with Demelza, her football teammate, the two siblings seated at a modern ash-gray table that served as Ginny's dining room as Ron told her everything that had transpired over the last few days. "Me? Just me? What about her? She poured _scalding hot tea_ on me, Ginny! But of course, you're her friend, you'll side with her—"

"I'm not saying what Hermione did was right either, Ron," Ginny said bluntly, silencing her brother. "It was impulsive, immature, and it could've seriously harmed you. I didn't know she had that side to her, and I don't think it's right. But it still doesn't excuse your behavior."

Ron rolled his eyes: "And we're back to this. Don't you see my side of this? Didn't anybody else see the Tweet?"

"The Tweet?" Ginny frowned slightly. "What Tweet?"

Ron pulled up the University's profile on his phone and handed it to Ginny: "You scroll, I can't look at it again."

Ginny kept her brow furrowed until she reached the photo that had sparked all this in the first place. Once she did, she fell into a deep, stony silence, and when she looked back up at her brother, it was with a practically-murderous expression in her eyes. "I can't believe you. This shitshow came from a fucking _Tweet_? From the _PR department_?"

"Did no one else see this?" yelled Ron incredulously, still holding defensively onto his last rational line. "Was I the only one?"

Ginny responded matter-of-factly and in rapid-fire: "I don't follow the University because I think their Tweets are stupid and cheesy, Harry doesn't have social media because he hates undue attention, Hermione only uses Twitter for news, and the rest of our friends would have _never_ been stupid enough to believe something like this." She spun the phone around with the magnified image, and Ron winced, turning away. "Malfoy, Ron, really?"

"I guess it was the caption that did it," Ron mumbled, turning beet-red with embarrassment at how erred his judgment had been.

"You're such a child, really, it's ridiculous, did you never learn reading comprehension?" muttered Ginny, tapping away diligently at her phone screen. "I'm screenshotting this to send to Hermione. She'll want to know what caused this to begin with. Though whether she's going to want to date you knowing how much of a baby you are, it's not up to me..." She finished typing and set her phone down on the table, her red-varnished fingernails leaving the phone and intertwining to settle in a clasp of her hands under her chin, her head propped up there. "Now that that's sorted, will you please tell me what the bloody hell led you to go back to Lavender so fast? Why would that even be your first response?"

"I know it was rash—" started Ron.

"Not just rash, it was moronic," Ginny cut him off unforgivingly. "No beating around the bush, Ron. I know I tease you a lot, but I'm your sister, and you can trust me. You know as well as I do how forced and overdone it is to go back to your _secondary school_ girlfriend immediately as soon as you sense a _rumor_. So, why?"

Ron was prepared to put his defenses back up and hold steadfast by the fact that maybe he was just an idiot (that's what Ginny was pushing at, after all, right?). However, looking across the table, he saw nothing but candor in Ginny's eyes, and a soft but serious expression that told him she meant it— she wasn't going to mess with him over this. And he felt his insecurities collecting inside —they had for every night since he'd seen that photo, had stayed latent in his mind, throbbing loudly— and knew that this was a rare, golden chance to maybe break free of them.

So he sighed, took a deep breath, and prepared to be honest with her: "I hope you know how hard it is for me to say this, Gin."

"I'm listening," Ginny said gently, aware of how sensitive an issue this seemed to be.

Ron was surprised to find incipient tears beginning to form at the corners of his eyes, and he willed them away forcefully before he started. "It's the things she says, Gin... Lavender... That she's the best I'm ever gonna get. That I don't deserve anyone better. That I'm dull, awful, ugly, imperfect— that nobody except her could ever want me." He was crying freely now, his words coming out in between choked sobs. "She said Granger would get tired of me soon. And I thought things were going so well —we showed each other music, we went out to the Hog's Head together— and then we didn't see each other for days, because she was probably busy being a bloody genius, but I'm stupid and I overthought it, and when I saw that photo I thought... I thought..."

"You thought Lavender was right," said Ginny quietly, and Ron could say no more: his shoulders shook with the effort of facing everything awful Lavender had told him, and the tears kept flowing down his freckled cheeks. Ginny got up, the chair scraping the floor as she pushed it back abruptly, and hurried around the table to hug her brother, laying her cheek on the top of his head and draping her arms around his shoulders.

Once the dam had broken, the flood of tears didn't stop: "What if she was right, Ginny?" croaked Ron brokenly, trying to draw enough air into his lungs to speak without wheezing from the crying. "What if she _is_ the best I'm getting? What if Granger _did_ get tired of me? After all, she's a bloody PhD already, and I'm some stupid physicist who can't even handle a decent file cabinet—"

"Stop," said Ginny solemnly, tightening her hug. "Ron, stop right there. If you keep telling yourself that, Lavender wins." She dropped down to kneel on the floor beside his chair, and he turned to look down at her, still red-faced. Ginny placed her hands on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. "Ron, you're brilliant. Even if you're a little messy, you're brilliant. You're here on a research grant and you came here undergrad on a scholarship when even mum and dad doubted there'd be enough in the college fund for either of us. And you're funny, you're charismatic, you're a joy to be around (and I say that even having lived with you for seventeen years)... What isn't there to love?"

Ron smiled faintly now, wiping away at his sniffling nose with a fraying sleeve. Ginny smiled up at him too, rubbing his shoulders reassuringly: "Listen, Ron, Lavender's wrong. Don't let her be right. And don't give up on Granger. Sure, she may have attempted upon your life with a cup from Madam Puddifoot's," —at this, Ron laughed shakily—, "but I think that may just be that she cares too, and she doesn't know how else to show it." She got up, dusted off her knees, and returned to her own chair. "If anything, I think the fact that you both are clearly absolute bollocks at dealing with your feelings just goes to show how well-made you are for one another."

"You think so?" Ron asked feebly, and Ginny nodded.

"Yes, but just because I say so doesn't mean a magic wand gets waved and everything gets fixed again. I'm not a witch, you know. If you want to fix things, you've gotta talk to her. It's the only way."

Ron began rocking in his chair, wiping his palms on his trousers, a determined expression cast across his features. "Talk to her. Right."

"Don't tell me: you have no idea how to."

Ron froze; Ginny had her answer.

"You could always start tomorrow, we have that group meeting for her project again, at Bagshot Hall. Stick behind for a few minutes afterward. Talk to her as she's putting away her things. Just be straightforward with her. Oh, tell you what— you know Autumn Formal is coming up. Why don't you ask her to go with you? It could help patch things up."

"Tomorrow, project meeting, Autumn Formal," Ron nodded, taking it all in. He closed his eyes as if to engrave it on his memory, then looked up at his sister, beaming. "You're a bit of a genius yourself too, you know that, Gin?"

Ginny's cheeks went rosy at the compliment, but sensing her brother was back up to snuff, she returned to her usual cheek: "It's a good thing you've got me, then, because you're an absolute dumbass."

* * *

"Granger, could I have a word?" came a voice from the front of the desk as the rest of the room was being vacated, and Granger was (she had to admit) a bit surprised to hear who it belonged to. _I thought he wouldn't want to talk to me after that little stunt I pulled_ , she said, and something in her squirmed with shame at how utterly childishly she'd behaved in the lab. 

She tilted her chin up to look at him, and sure enough, there was Weasley, looking his usual unkempt self in a coffee-stained button-down. Looking back into his pale blue eyes almost made her want to throw her arms around him, but she reined herself in: she was still dreadfully angry at him, after all, and that burning ire in the pit of her stomach wasn't going anywhere.

"Weasley," she said plainly, crossing her arms to look at him, as if to conceal any hint of vulnerability from him and instead present only a defiant facade.

"Saw the Tweet, then?" he asked with a nervous chuckle, his hand ruffling nervously with the back of his tousled hair. 

"Yeah, Ginny texted me. It did clear things up, I suppose."

"But...?"

"But what?" she retorted with a raised eyebrow. If Weasley had been the one to ask to talk to her, she sure as hell wasn't going to pull the emotional load of their exchange.

He sensed it too, because he sighed and gave up the jokey grin: "I think you know what I'm going to say, but I'm too much of a git to actually say it. I was going to call you—"

"But you didn't," she said, and the slight trip in her voice let him onto just how hurt she'd been.

"No, I didn't," he continued, in pained honesty. "Because I'm a coward and I don't stop to think about my actions before I carry them out. And because I was scared that you wouldn't pick up, I guess... I just want you to know that I know it was rash, and that I didn't mean it, and that it's okay if you don't want to forgive me (even if you did pour that tea on me)—"

"Not helping your case, Weasley."

"Right, sorry. Okay, anyway— I don't think I'm well-equipped to actually put things in words right now, because I'm all red and sweaty and you look like you want to kill me, and I'd much rather do it sitting across from each other again, maybe at a proper dinner, where it would be socially sanctionable for you to outright murder me—"

He thought he must be doing well, because Granger's face was beginning to light up, her hard expression waning (though he knew it'd take longer than a clumsy flirtation to fully work things through). This gave him courage, and he prepared to dive into an invitation to the Autumn Formal when suddenly her features hardened again and the lines across her face returned and drew themselves more deeply. His heart sank: what had happened?

He got his answer when he felt ten hard nails dig into his right arm and a familiar squeal reached his ears. "Won-Won, I thought you'd left without me!" Lavender, feigning innocence, looked innocuously at Granger, a maliciously blank look in her eyes. "Oh, sorry! Didn't want to interrupt your conversation. I just wanted to walk out with my _boyfriend_..."

 _Goddammit,_ Weasley thought, _it's all really gone down the drain now._

Granger looked coldly at them, all vestige of warmth drained from her gaze. "Oh, I see what this is," she deadpanned, and began stuffing her things into her purse more hastily, picking up after herself in an evident hurry to leave. She was done in a jiffy, and swung the purse over her shoulder, ready to go.

"Granger, wait—" said Weasley desperately, holding out a hand to try to keep her there, but she pierced him with a stare and he withdrew the hand. 

"Next time you want to talk to me, Weasley," she hissed, her voice laden with fury, "I'd appreciate it if you'd do it alone."

With that, she turned her back on them and stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her and leaving Weasley devastated.


	23. Chapter 23

Rita Skeeter sat behind her desk, sorting through the usual paperwork, when someone rapped on her office door. She didn't even have time to bid the person come in, because whoever it was needed no instruction to do so: the door was pushed open almost immediately, and there, in the doorframe, stood the proud figure of Dr. Hermione Granger.

"I assume they don't teach you doctors that it's common courtesy to wait for the person to tell you to come in when you knock," said Rita, with evident distaste at the unexpected visit.

"Like you're one for courtesy," huffed Granger, staring her down.

"And you've got some gall waltzing in here unannounced. I could be in a meeting—!"

"You're not in a meeting, nor are you expecting any, because your secretary is nowhere to be seen and I know you wouldn't let her go on her lunch break if you didn't need her to do preliminary intimidation," Granger cut right to it, and sat down unprompted in one of the white acrylic chairs in front of Rita's desk.

"How very observant," muttered Rita through an acrid smile. "So how can I help you, _Ms._ Granger?"

Granger didn't answer immediately; instead, she ruffled through her bag and fished out her phone, tapping at it until she got at what she was looking for. She grabbed her phone and spun it so Rita could see her own brilliant Tweet of Granger and Malfoy from a few days back. "This. Take it down."

"Take it down?" said Rita, laughing unpleasantly, but Granger didn't budge and kept holding the phone out impassively. "You really _are_ feeling brave today, aren't you, Ms. Granger? Asking me to remove an official PR Tweet?"

"It's gossip and you know it," said Granger, the arm holding her phone still stiff out in front of her. "You have no context to this photo other than that you invented for it. And your Tweet is already interfering with my privacy, which I don't appreciate. So take it down."

"And what makes you think I'm gonna do it just because you ask— without even saying please, I might add?" snarled Rita, baring her teeth in what was probably meant to resemble a smile.

Granger sighed and withdrew the phone, but if Rita thought this meant she'd backed down, her next words proved her dead wrong: "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this." She returned the phone to her purse and set it aside, to pierce Rita straight through with her gaze. "I did my research and, as it turns out, you're not allowed to post anything with my face in it without my express consent— by which I mean, signing of the University's publicity and privacy notice."

"Hurrah, you've discovered the University handbook! Tell me why I care."

"Because I never signed it," Granger said, a slyly triumphant grin drawing itself across her lips as Rita's face paled. "I didn't sign it when I enrolled because I didn't want my face to appear on anything that wasn't academically-related. And, before now, that never seemed to be a problem. Though, of course, if you insist to keep it up, this could always end up in a disciplinary report I present to Shacklebolt..."

"Are you blackmailing me, you little bitch?" hissed Rita, all artificial friendliness now gone.

"Blackmail?" laughed Granger coldly. "Oh no, Rita, I'm just enforcing the rules of the University you work for. Isn't that what you'd expect a goody-two-shoes like me to do?"

Rita was defenseless against that, but her sour expression flipped viciously when she discovered a last loose thread she could probably hold on to: "And what about _your_ project, Little Ms. Perfect? That falls under the privacy notice too, doesn't it? And I happen to know you had a meeting a couple of days ago with those dorks you're interviewing for it— I bet they don't know about this norm either, right? Want me to shut that down for you?"

To her surprise, Granger didn't look deflated, but rather gave that same cold laugh: "Oh, Rita— once again, you are way out of your depth." She looked through her bag again, pulling out a transparent plastic folder. She undid the clasp and extracted a thick stack of papers, which she held up and waved mockingly before Rita's eyes. "That's exactly _what_ the meeting was for. I had them all sign contracts that said they're aware of the norm and consent to their names and images being used for this project. You really thought I'd overlook that and give you a chance to fight fire with fire?" She carefully placed the contracts back in the folder, speaking absentmindedly as she replaced it in her bag: "And I ran these by Shacklebolt and he commended me on them, so don't even think of trying to undercut me or he'll know something's up." She finished with the purse, zipped it up, and folded her hands innocently on her lap, looking at Rita with a mock blank expression.

Rita could've burst out in flames, and she had to stifle the urge to reach across the table and throttle Granger until she turned purple; however, she contented herself with mumbling "fucking bitch" out of the corner of her mouth.

"Oh, good, so we're clear!" said Granger brightly, seemingly deaf to what Rita had just called her. She got up, the purse neatly held in her hands, and prepared to leave the office. When she spoke again, there was no saccharine sweetness in her tone, but rather a stern ultimatum: "Remove the Tweet, Rita. And don't ever interfere with my personal matters again."

She swiveled on her heels and exited the office primly, closing the door delicately behind her so as to not even give Rita the pleasure of a slam.

Too stunned to do much, Rita stayed frozen in her chair for a few seconds, watching the door where Granger had just closed it, before she hunched over her desk and retook up her furious scribbling on the papers she was sifting through. "No promises, _Ms._ Granger," she hissed, bringing her pen down on the paper with a little too much force. "You'll have to wait and see."

* * *

"So, how'd it go?" came Ginny's voice from the phone speaker. Granger cradled her cellphone between her shoulder and her ear, her hands full with the salad bowl she'd tossed for her own dinner.

"Pretty good," she responded, setting the bowl down on her small glass-and-wooden table. "I think she knows it's in her best interests to take it down." She sat down, took a sip from the glass of white wine at the top right corner of her tablecloth, and took the phone out from where it was squeezed, now holding it normally to her ear with a hand, the elbow rested on the table. "Thank you for sending that Tweet over, by the way. I don't think I would've seen it otherwise, and it explains so much."

"It explains it, definitely, even if it doesn't justify Ron's response to it," said Ginny, and even through the phone Granger could tell her tone had hardened. "And speaking of justification, Hermione, we need to talk about why you think it's okay to go around pouring hot tea on people like some sort of beverage avenger."

"Oh, that," Granger snorted, trying to push it from her mind to keep talking to her friend. "Well, that—"

"No, don't 'oh, that' me," interrupted Ginny, enunciating sternly. "It's not nothing, Hermione. You could've seriously hurt him, and even though you didn't, it still doesn't mean it wasn't an immature and dangerous thing to do."

"Well, I—" Granger began blurting, not for a moment having expected Ginny's comments.

"No, look, listen, I understand how you were feeling and I know that it was a visceral reaction to seeing Ron with her. I've talked to Ron too, and we've agreed that that was stupid on his part as well. _But_ Ron's part could've been sorted out with some talking, which I though you'd do as such a rational person, but throwing a cup of burning liquid over someone isn't exactly something rational."

"You're right," said Granger quietly, her cheeks burning hot.

Ginny spoke again, more gently: "Look, Hermione, I know you've always been told how mature you are for your age and you've never heard a word that isn't praise in your life. That speaks highly of you, and I hope you know how much it makes me admire you. But that doesn't mean you're morally above all of us, nor does it mean that you get a free pass on things like these. I love you, and I love my brother, but both of you are acting like petty schoolchildren. I have to say I was especially surprised that _you_ helped Draco and Harry _resolve_ their own issues via talking (and yes, he told me about it) and then turned around and did the exact opposite when it came to you."

Granger fell very silent, feeling shame clenching at her gut. "You're right," she finally muttered, unsure whether Ginny, on the other end, could actually hear her. "I don't know what came into me. I guess I'd just never felt something like it before, and I didn't know how to channel it— I'm not exactly the best at emotions."

"That's all fine as long as you recognize it still doesn't justify it," Ginny said knowingly. "Hermione, I love the idea of you going out with my brother. I think you can really bring out the best in him, and I can tell he likes you a lot. But what I don't love nearly as much is the idea of him dating someone who thinks it's admissible to physically harm him every time he screws up. Relationships are made of people, and they're not going to be perfect all the time. That doesn't give you the right to treat someone like that."

" _I know_ ," cut Granger. "And it's not habitual, I promise. It won't be. I'm sorry."

"It's not me you need to apologize to," said Ginny, and the line went silent for a moment as the implications sank in. Ginny could tell Granger had got it, and as great as she was at standing up for those she loved, she also knew when to stop pushing because the message had gotten true. So she changed the subject, speaking in a lighter tone: "In other news, planning on going to the Autumn Formal?"

"Oh, I don't know," answered Granger nonchalantly.

On the other end of the phone, Ginny smacked a palm up to her forehead: she knew _exactly_ what that meant, and that meant that her brother hadn't talked to her. "Really?" she said, trying to sound casual. "Nobody's asked you?"

"Well, Weasley —your brother— came up to me after our meeting, and I thought it might have something to do with that," Granger said, recalling the exchange. "But then Lavender showed up and called him her _boyfriend_ , so that was tha—"

"Boyfriend?!" cried Ginny on the other end, unable to contain it. She paused, gave an exasperated groan, and returned to the phone: "Well, I still hope I'll see you at the Formal, Hermione. Good food, dressing formal, a fun night..."

"I do like wearing an evening dress," said Granger, a small smile twisting the right corner of her mouth up.

"I thought so," Ginny laughed briefly. "Alright, I'll talk to you later, I've gotta run."

"Bye! Have a good night!" Granger bid her farewell.

Ginny, in her own flat, clicked the red button to end the call and then let her face collapse into her hands. _Boyfriend?_ "I'm never being a couples therapist for free again," she mumbled to herself, dismayed at how things only seemed to be getting more twisted, and then got up to go help Demelza with dinner.


	24. Chapter 24

The hall of the centuries-old pavilion was illuminated by the gentle orange glow of the faint lights lining the ancient walls, as well as the flames dancing nimbly on the candles in the center of each table. The first formal of the year was always an occasion to celebrate, but tonight, the hall glowed with a special magnificence, almost magic in quality.

Granger entered the venue, dressed in a slim, floor-length red gown and draped in an ivory shawl, a small beaded black clutch held primly in her manicured hands. Her normally-riotous hair had been tamed for the evening (not without a lengthy battle with a hair straightener and inhuman amounts of hairspray and mousse), held back in a thin twist that still allowed her locks to flow down her back. She looked around the hall, taking in the surroundings: she had seen many formals during her long time at the University, but each new one never failed to impress her, even when she'd tried to appear nonchalant about it when she'd talked to Ginny over it. In the far corner, by the back wall, there was a mahogany bar set up, the shelves behind the barman lined with colorful bottles; right in front of the bar, shoved into the same corner, was a majestic grand piano, at which a squat little man in a handsome set of tails sat, coaxing out a pleasing backdrop melody. The tables were circular and arranged around the room evenly, an elegant white tablecloth laid across each table's surface.

Her observation was interrupted when a large hand grasped her arm and whisked her over toward its owner. "We're sitting over here, Granger," said McLaggen, with such an unpleasantly commanding tone that Granger had to think twice about _why_ she'd agreed to come with him in the first place. _Because of Weasley_ , that nagging voice at the back of her mind reminded her. _He's coming over with his_ girlfriend _, anyway, so he shouldn't care... unless he does?_ Who was she kidding? The whole reason she'd agreed to spend a whole evening with this arsehole was to see _whether_ Weasley would care.

 _But what if he doesn't even show up?_ she thought as McLaggen led her, a little too brusquely, toward a table near a wall opposite the corner where the bar and the piano were, where a few of his lab friends and their dates were smugly waving them over. Dismissing the thought that this may all be in vain, she sat in a chair with its back against the wall, mildly exasperated at the huge show McLaggen made of pulling her chair back for her (but his ostentatious chivalry ended when she ended up scooting herself closer, McLaggen forgetting to push the chair in, lost in a humblebrag about how lucky she was to be here with him tonight).

As she offered the table a plastic smile, McLaggen going around greeting the table and introducing her pompously as 'his hot date', Granger found herself unable to latch on to any smidge of their conversation, and instead a miserable realization dawned upon her: this was going to be so uncomfortable.

"So," one of the girls, a pointy-featured girl with choppy jet-black hair, asked her as soon as she was settled in, "Cormac tells us you've been working on some sort of publicity project for the University?"

"Yes!" Granger said brightly, shifting in her seat and elated at having a seemingly-friendly question thrown at her— this would really go the distance in easing her into a group of strangers, right? "I actually started earlier this seme—"

"Yes, Pansy, the University finally thought they'd siphon off some of her academic talents for their own marketing purposes," McLaggen interjected loudly, silencing Granger abruptly. "She's doing this... _thing_ where she's interviewing a bunch of people from different disciplines and recording how they talk, or whatever. But I've been telling her she chose the wrong people: she picked Longbottom and Finnigan, and get this— Weasley!"

The tabled erupted in a bout of nasty laughter, Weasley's name evidently the usual butt of a lot of McLaggen's jokes.

"I don't think—" Granger began again, eager to defend her friends.

"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart, I'm only teasing," cooed McLaggen, patting her hand with one of his, but there was no softness in his gaze. "I know you couldn't have picked _us_ , anyway. We would've been a bit too intimidatingly good-looking on those publicity pamphlets," he winked.

 _Sweetheart?!_ And in what universe would she ever have plausibly chosen McLaggen and his cronies for something so personal as this? However, she'd gotten the idea by now: any protest would be futile, and would be quickly swallowed by McLaggen's irrepressible need to impose himself over anyone. It was clear to her that, tonight, she was an accessory, something McLaggen would be bragging about for weeks (she could almost picture him, that disgustingly smug smirk on his face, whispering about how he'd taken _Dr. Hermione Granger_ to the Autumn Formal and she'd _totally_ wanted to get with him). However, she couldn't exactly be very offended— she was using him too, wasn't she? A revenge date to —for some reason she hadn't yet justified within the confines of her usual rationality, which seemed to have been superseded by every emotion long-resting in her— try to make Weasley jealous?

And speaking of that, _where was he_?

As if in a divine answer to her internal query, a lanky figure suddenly appeared in the door: dressed in an evening jacket with a lopsided black bowtie, Weasley's messy red hair was unmistakable. Her heart leaped— had he come alone? However, it just as soon sank again: he was suddenly flanked by a plumper figure in a peplum lilac cocktail dress, the obvious connection of its color to her name coming through immediately: Lavender. She tottered alongside him in thick white open-toed heels, clinging to his arm as if to a raft in a seastorm, her corkscrew blond curls bouncing behind her back. The expression in her face was one of undisputable triumph: she seemed to be scanning the room to find Granger, as if to show her _who_ she'd snagged for the Formal.

Weasley, with Lavender on his arm, began ambling toward the side of the room where her table was located, and her heart began pounding faster at the thought that, so close to her, her petty plan might _just_ work. However, Lavender spotted her before Weasley did: she froze in her tracks and Weasley nearly bowled over with the sudden halt, looking in the same direction as she was. They were both looking straight at Granger, Lavender with a narrowed expression of disgust and Weasley with something resembling half hopefulness, half heartbreak. But it took no time before Lavender whipped him around, spinning agilely on her heels, and marched him promptly to the opposite side of the room, against the other wall, dragging him to the farthest table she could possibly muster. His arm held in her iron grip, Weasley kept looking over his shoulder at Granger, who couldn't look away from him either— was that an apologetic look? Was it a plea for help?

"Darling, I'm talking to you," McLaggen's suave voice came to her again, completely divergent from the hard, scolding squeeze he gave her thigh under the table.

Resisting the urge to slap him across the face, Granger tore her eyes away from Weasley and looked back at the expectant table, which glared at her hungrily.

"I'm afraid I zoned out," she said calmly, faking a smile.

"That's alright," McLaggen said, patting her shoulder a bit too keenly and apparently oblivious to how she recoiled in disgust. "I was just telling them about how we met."

"Wait a minute," said a blond man who Granger recognized as Zacharias Smith, another one of the physicists in Weasley's lab. "Didn't you originally meet her at that par—"

McLaggen must've administered a swift kick under the table, because Smith let out a small yelp of pain and fell quiet. "We don't talk about that," McLaggen muttered through gritted teeth before the all-too-radiant smile returned to his lips. "No, as I was saying, we met when she came into the lab one day expressly looking for me..."

Granger let his obvious lie slide, fixated instead on what Smith had said that had brought out such a beastly chastisement from McLaggen. Was he referring to a party? She didn't recall having _met_ McLaggen in a different scenario than that time in undergrad research seminar, during their first semester, where he'd first chucked a disgusting pickup line at her, much less at a _party_... Was he talking about that second-year party he'd brought up at the lab some weeks before? She hoped not— for some reason, her excellent memory failed her when it came to that night, and she was curiously unable to string any recollections of it together. _Smith must be mistaking me for some other girl_ , she finally said, shrugging lightly, tuning out McLaggen's fabricated meet-cute entirely. _Wouldn't put it past Cormac to have hooked up with countless others since he was an undergrad._

"Aww, that is _so cute_!" the woman named Pansy squealed, clasping her pale hands under her chin and snapping Granger out of her stupor.

McLaggen looked at Granger almost menacingly, no doubt expecting her to fall in line with whatever story he'd just made up about them. "Yeah," she said softly, through a painfully artificial smile, again realizing how much like torture this night would be, "yeah, I guess it really was."

* * *

"Won-Won, you're awfully distracted tonight," pouted Lavender, reaching a hand across Ron's face to wave it in front of his eyes.

"Huh? Yeah, sorry, I had a long day at the lab," he chuckled dryly, preferring to go with that because he had a mild suspicion that if she latched on to the fact that he'd been staring at Granger again she'd flip the table over.

"That's my Ronnie, so hardworking," she cooed, pressing her cheek to his and rubbing lightly. He recoiled slightly, but she didn't notice, because she turned proudly back to the table —which was mostly made up of Lavender's girlfriends and one or two unsuspecting dates—: "Ron's a quantum physicist, you know."

"Oooh," rose an impressed murmur from the girls, and one of their dates, a stout, jolly-looking man with tufts of straw-colored hair, leaned over and smiled amicably at Ron: "A man of the sciences, I see! That's so desperately needed among a crowd of us humanities enthusiasts."

"Glad to help out, er..." Ron said, trailing off to dissimulate not knowing his name.

"Ernie," the man provided helpfully, seemingly having taken no offense.

"Ernie," Ron nodded politely, and Ernie seemed contented.

 _I surely must have fulfilled my quota for 'obligatory interactions with Lavender's friends' by now_ , he thought, again returning to scanning the crowd to allow his gaze to become anchored again on Granger. He _hated_ sociologists: Ernie was certainly the most pompous of them, sure, but the rest of them always spoke in big words and roundabouts, and none of them seemed to have the same direct, tongue-in-cheek style he so cherished. And if one of them asked him _one more time_ whether he thought the interaction in growing up in such a large family, as if he was a specimen to be studied, the table would lose a member before the first course had even been served.

As if by magic, a waiter materialized beside their table and began setting down plates in front of them, the first course colorfully set upon them. "Caprese salad with balsamic reduction and arugula garnish," the waiter announced grandiosely, giving them a small bow before disappearing back toward the kitchen.

"Good thing we don't have menus, eh?" Ron quipped as he reached for one of the thick-paper placards with the night's meal on them, poking fun at the waiter. His joke was met with blank stares.

"That's a little rude, don't you think?" a girl he recognized as Parvati's twin said softly, and it was all Ron could do to not strangle himself with his napkin right then and there. They were pretentious, they were overbearing, and on top of that, they couldn't take a joke— why had he signed up to sit here tonight in the first place?

 _It's because you chickened out of asking Granger,_ a voice piped up in the back of his mind. _And you_ also _chickened out of telling Lavender you were through, or even objecting when she called you her boyfriend... Man, Granger looked like she hated that, didn't she_ _?_

He didn't need to be reminded, not even by his subconscious: if only he hadn't let Lavender ensnare him again! If only he'd gathered up enough courage, especially after Ginny's pep talk, to stand up to her, he could be the one sitting next to Granger in her gorgeous red gown! _But you're a coward_ , the same sniggling voice chimed in again. _You're a coward, and you keep thinking you deserve Lavender. Until you listen to Ginny, and pluck up enough courage to come to terms with how awful she is, that's not going to change._

That was all very high and dandy coming from his own conscience, but why couldn't he follow it then? Why was he still sitting here tonight, when all he wanted was to march up to that table with Parkinson and Smith and rescue Granger from McLaggen's clutches? Assuming, of course, she wanted him to come for her... he assumed she was still seething after the whole 'boyfriend' incident, and rightfully so. But if only he had a chance to make it up to her!

"Won-Won, aren't you going to eat any of your salad?" Lavender brought him back to earth, poking at his arm a bit too strongly with her index finger.

"If you won't, I will!" said Ernie excitedly, making eyes at Ron's plate. "I find everything Italian to be an absolute delicacy. And, of course, how can I complain when it's nutritious on top of it all!"

Ron had half a mind to tell Ernie where to put his _delicacy_ , but he knew any snark wouldn't be well-received at the table, so instead he gave a nauseated smile and poked a tomato rind with his fork, shoving it into his mouth and again berating himself for not having squared up to Lavender. Alright, so maybe he wouldn't have made up with Granger, but he could see his friends a few tables over, laughing and clinking glasses without a care in the world. Hell, he could've kissed even _Neville_ if he'd been next to him right now— at least Neville laughed at his jokes, he thought sourly.

"I'm so glad you guys are back together," Parvati piped up, a doe-eyed look glazing over her features.

Lavender adopted the same look and glanced sweetly up into Ron's eyes: "I know, right? It was only a matter of time, that's what I said. When two people are made for each other..." She puckered her lips and leaned in closer toward Ron's mouth, who —sensing her intent— dodged out of the way and managed to make her lips land on his cheek.

He tried to laugh it off, fully aware that Lavender was frowning, and got up abruptly from the table, his napkin dropping from his lap and sliding sadly onto the waxed wooden floor. "I'm... going to go to the toilets."

"Oh, I'll come with you!" Ernie volunteered, standing from his chair eagerly. "If you'll excuse the word, ladies, I do believe urinating can come more easily when one is in proximity to another man—"

"No! No, that won't be necessary," squeaked Ron, trying to clothe his alarm in a pitchy giggle. Ernie looked taken aback, so Ron cleared his throat and made for the bathroom. "No, I can take a leak on my own perfectly well, thank you, Ernie. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

And without even _caring_ about whether they did in fact excuse him, he swiftly wove away from the table and toward the far corner of the hall, away from what he thought might just be the worst seating arrangement he'd ever had to partake in (and that was counting family Christmases where his Aunt Muriel sat next to him). He darted toward the bathroom, feeling an overwhelming wave of relief crash over him as he pushed the door to it open, a feeling that only increased when he dove into a cubicle and latched the door behind him.

He sighed: he hadn't realized he'd been making such an effort to get away, but it didn't surprise him. If anything, it had only further convinced him that Lavender _had_ to be left behind. Frustratedly, he smacked the stall door, exasperated at everything about how this Formal was going. How was he supposed to fix anything with Granger now, after tonight? He felt lost, and confused, and had no idea where to go next. He banged the stall door a couple more times, then let his forehead fall forward by his fist, surprised to feel a prickling at the corner of his eyes that signaled the advent of hopeless tears.

He took a few shaky breaths, trying to steady himself and calm down enough to return to the table. What was that thing Ginny swore by, that grounding technique? Pinpointing one thing you could perceive with each sense? Yes, that was it.

First, touch: he could feel the cold steel of the stall door under his fist, cool under his hand. Then, taste: he could still feel a residue of that positively ghastly balsamic reduction at the back of his throat, coating his tongue thinly. Then, smell: he aspired a draw of air into his lungs, his nose crinkling when the scent of citrusy bathroom odor mixed with the fumes from the sewage reached it. Next, sight: he opened his eyes slowly, turning around to face the back of the stall, fixating his gaze upon a chipped tile in the restroom wall. Last, hearing: he perked his ears to receive a sound, and the first to flow in was a string of notes from the piano, which was right outside the bathroom.

The piano— that was it! He had it!

He snuck out of the bathroom, crouching along the walls, making sure Lavender wouldn't be able to pick him out from half a room away and wonder why exactly he was taking so long. On lithe tiptoes, he made his way to the piano, still bent over to keep his considerable stature from giving him away, and stay crouched by the pianist until he'd finished a song and was smiling gently at the polite applause he received.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your kindness tonight!" the pianist spoke smoothly into a microphone perched over the keyboard. "I'm going to take a short break, but I'll be back before you know it and just in time for dessert. _Bon appétit!_ "

Another round of scattered applause went around the room, and the pianist gave another of his little smiles before he hopped off the piano bench and made for the bar, tiredly waving the barman over for a well-deserved drink.

Now was his chance: he slipped casually next to the pianist, leaning nonchalantly against the bar, his knees still bent to stay ducked out of sight. "Nice work," he bid the pianist, trying not to look too awkward in his cramped position. "You're a marvelous player."

"Why, thank you," said the pianist, smiling honestly up at him as he received a short glass of whiskey on the rocks from the barman.

Ron went straight to it: "Say, you don't take requests, do you?"

* * *

She may be no engineer, but Granger was, at this point in the dinner, seriously pondering the mechanical plausibility of using the dessert spoon to gouge her eyes out. She had barely eked out a single word over dinner, McLaggen constantly speaking over her and, what was worse, speaking _for_ her. She'd soon given up and had instead cut into her entree, a plump chicken breast bathed in a red-wine-and-plum sauce, with a little too much zeal for someone handling a knife.

At least it would be over soon, she thought when the waiter had set the small plates with the chocolate soufflés, topped with a strawberry, in front of them. How much longer could dessert drag on, after all? Though, judging by how much McLaggen was enjoying being at the center of attention, they may very well stay in the post-dinner conversation for a couple more hours.

As she poked absently at her soufflé, a smattering of courteous applause reached her ears again, a surefire sign that the pianist had returned, and she straightened slightly. Everything had gotten worse when she hadn't even had the piano as a respite from the dreary conversation: she'd been playing a neat little game with herself, trying to guess the pieces he'd selected in as few measures as she possibly could. The Chopin had been easy enough, but some of the Rachmaninoff had been a bit more challenging— nonetheless, she was pretty pleased at having been able to tell apart all of them, as it had kept her, to some extent, sane during this dinner. At least things would be a bit more bearable now.

The pianist gave the microphone a couple of light taps, sending a muffled static wave reverberating through the hall. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please... I don't usually cater to requests, but I had a nice young fellow come up here and ask me if he could dedicate a particular song to a lucky lady. I must admit, it's not a very usual piece in my repertory, but for whoever it is, he wants you to know he's out there thinking of you, no matter what."

An intrigued round of 'oohs' rippled through the hall, and Granger joined in, looking curiously around the hall to try to find the couple for whom this had been put together. How awfully romantic! Was this a first date, maybe? A step in courtship? A naive undergrad trying to serenade a cute girl in his class?

"I sure do love this sort of thing," sighed Pansy dreamily, abandoning the stream of conversation to peer out at the hall with greedy little eyes, seeking out the same couple so she could, no doubt, gossip over them.

Granger settled in her seat and braced herself for the first few notes, ready for another round of the doorbusting, groundbreaking game 'can Hermione Granger tell what this classical piano piece is in as short a time as possible?'.

But then the first chords came, and she was completely disarmed.

It couldn't be. It couldn't possibly, there was no way— but there was also no mistaking those first crystal-clear notes either, as distinctive as if they'd been calling out her name. Mozart's twenty-first _Klavierkonzert_ , sure enough, was pouring from the pianist's fingertips, starting right at the point where the _andante_ bled into the piano portion.

"What a sentimental sucker, huh?" McLaggen snickered, elbowing her in the ribs to get her to at least give him a docile smile, but she wasn't listening. How could she?

Her gaze, instead, soared well above the heads of everyone in the hall, desperately seeking a pair of ice-blue eyes she knew _had_ to be in here. Then, as if strung together by a magnet, her eyes met Weasley's, all the way across the room, an unwavering expression devoid of all outright emotion except for the eyes— the eyes positively dripped with everything Granger knew he must be wanting to tell her. He didn't seem to care that Lavender was fussing at his side, trying to get him to look back at her, to pay attention to them— she saw he only had eyes for her, how much this meant to him. Without releasing his gaze, Granger allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch up with an inconspicuous smile.

And he knew.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember reading somewhere (in a post, most likely) that sometimes fanfic is an excuse to get characters to just sit down and talk about their feelings. More than anything, I feel that's what this chapter is— but I hope that's a good thing. :)

"What's a man gotta do to get a seat around here?"

Granger sat hunched over a pile of books and papers in a secluded table in the library (having well-learned her lesson about sitting near windows) when a voice reached her over her shoulder, leading her to look around. To her surprise, Weasley stood there, a sheepish grin on his face and two pink cardboard cups in his hand. The autumn chill had gotten to him too, and instead of his usual messy button-down, he now donned a homemade-looking knit sweater and a matching scarf.

She gestured to the empty chair across from her, and Weasley sat down, setting both cups on the table in front of him.

"How'd you find me?" she asked, her voice tinged with happy curiosity.

"Malfoy said I could probably find you here."

" _You_ talked to _Draco_ to figure out where I was?"

"Don't say you weren't worth it," Weasley said bashfully, turning a light hue of red.

Granger's heart skipped a beat, and she had to keep herself from just breaking out into a grin already, compressing it instead into a small, closed-lip smile. "Is that for me?" she asked, gesturing vaguely toward one of the cups.

"Only if you promise you won't dump it over my head this time," Weasley replied, mockingly protecting the cups with his hands and raising an eyebrow.

"I promise I won't," she said, laughing. "Not now or ever again, I promise."

"I'll believe it when you've drank it through without getting so much as a single drop on me," Weasley said, pushing a cup across the table to her. She cupped it between her hands with relish: the warmth emanating from the pink cardboard flowed nicely into her palms, complementing the toastiness of sitting between filled bookcases.

"Chamomile tea?" she asked, already knowing the answer before she brought it up to her nose to catch a whiff of it.

"I s'ppose it's sort of become... _our_ drink, don't you think?" Weasley said, the red still firmly rooted in his cheeks. "Better that than the murder weapon in my tragic death, anyway, right?"

Granger laughed softly again, trying to let it push through the thick layers of guilt now falling upon her. Ginny's words kept echoing through her ears: _you could've seriously hurt him_. She thought she saw a pink patch of raw skin above his left ear, and her guilt twisted her gut even tighter.

"Why are you here?" she asked naively, unsure of how to jump into the conversation inevitably being set up here.

"Really, Granger? Genius like you can't figure it out?"

She sighed and spoke, refusing to look up from a small notch in the table. "I owe you an apology. More than that, really— sure, I was angry and caught off guard by... _by what I saw_ , but it didn't give me a right to hurt you. I know you wouldn't have done the same had... had our places been the other way around."

"I owe you an apology too— a smaller one, sure, since I didn't _attempt murder_ —" he joked, but fell serious again when he saw a flash of guilt streak across her face. "No, I'm sorry I went straight to Lavender too. Without talking to you first, especially. Just sorta jumped to conclusions, there, like the idiot I am—"

"Ronald, don't say that," she said sternly, sending a hand out across the table again to grab his forearm (there it was! His first name again, from her lips!). "It's not true. I don't know... _why_ you believe that about yourself, but like I told you at the pub, you're nothing short of brilliant. I'm sorry if some people make it harder for you to see that."

He smiled sadly, finding it impossible to deny how comforting her words were but at the same time realizing what it meant that she'd caught on to his insecurities. "Ginny got through to you, didn't she?"

"Your sister's a genius," Granger shrugged, and that was answer enough for him.

"Much like you," he said, and she returned his faint smile before they fell into silence.

"Why are you so nice to me?" she blurted out all of a sudden.

"What do you mean?"

"I act like a child and put you in serious danger of real bodily harm, and yet you... you dedicate a song to me, _live_ , and you talk to someone you can't stand, just to find me, and you bring me _tea_ , and you say such lovely things about me..."

"It's because I mean it all, Hermione Granger," he said— and there it was, to her, the first time she'd heard her own name spill from his lips. "Because I meant what I said that night we spent at the Hog's Head. Through and through, despite our mistakes, even when I'm a prat and you're overly petty, you're the only girl I care about meeting. I've known it since..." he hesitated to say it, to bring back the night he'd known, but he suspected she didn't remember, out of courtesy to the moment budding between them. "Suffice it to say I've known a long time. And it's true. Through and through, I'll do whatever it takes to get the girl."

"Even when she doesn't deserve it?" Granger said shakily, through a vision already blurring with tears.

"Don't say that either," Weasley said, and now his hand fell on hers, which was still on his forearm. "Sure, you have shortcomings, but who doesn't? It doesn't mean I think you're anything less than incredible. And let's not make this about _deserving_ each other, honestly, it creates this ugly feeling that we somehow _owe_ the other something..."

"See, with that I know Ginny's gotten through to you," Granger wagged a finger at him, and now it was he who laughed.

"I admit it, she sat me down and had a long, therapist-style talk with me about how dangerous it is to introduce power dynamics into relationships. She said she would charge me by the hour next time, though, so we better not screw this up again."

"Does this mean...?"

Weasley caught on to the implication immediately, and again the sad smile returned to his lips. "Yeah, Lavender's gone. I broke it to her yesterday, and it wasn't pretty. She kept going off about how _romantic_ it had been that someone had gotten a dedication at the Formal, and how she wished I did more stuff like that for her because how would she know I cared otherwise, and how she only wished I was that kind of boyfriend... In short, I snapped and told her I _was_ that kind of boyfriend, maybe just not to her. I didn't tell her about— about Mozart, or anything, but she caught on pretty quick and she started crying like a madwoman, holding on to my leg and yelling about how she was the best I could ever hope for... " He sighed, scrunching his eyes so as to banish the memory, and shuddered. "It was ugly, she put on a scene and now I think I may be banned from _that_ shop for a while, but that's okay. It's over." 

He released another deep, wavering sigh, and Granger stayed quiet, allowing him to regain his bearings before she ventured to speak again. "Ronald... Ron... I'm so sorry."

"It had to be done, hadn't it?" he tried to laugh, but it came out shaky and pitchy, betraying how close he was to crying. "Should've done it much sooner, in fact. Can't say it was easy, but I had to..."

Granger couldn't tell what came over her, but before she knew it, she was leaning over the table, her lips heading straight to find his. To her surprise, just as they brushed, he jerked away, almost knocking his chair over, yanking his arm away from her grip.

"I can't— not now— I'm sorry—" he sputtered, and guilt took over Granger again.

"Why do I keep doing this?" she whispered rapidly, and met his glance. "I'm sorry, that was very out of place. I'm— I'm not good with emotions, as I'm sure you can tell, and I'm not great at picking moments—"

"No, that would've been a great moment," Weasley reassured her, his breath steadying slowly. "But I'm sure you'll understand— I'm not fit to... to get back into something so soon."

"I don't get it—"

"No, please, listen," he interjected, and locked his gaze with hers. "I like you, Granger, I like you _so much_ I can barely stand to have you so close to me and not be doing anything about it. I like you so much I'd give anything to be back in that little room at Remembrall, tangoing to songs that aren't even supposed to be tangoed to. I like you so much I could spend eternity suspended in that dingy little pub, talking to you about possible ruptures in the time-space continue, brushing my leg with yours under the table. But I need time." He sighed, drawing in a breath to push the next part out, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "I need time, Granger. I'm... I'm coming out of a very dark spot with Lavender, and I'm not sure I want to jump into something new so quickly when the last interaction involved you tossing a cup of scalding tea over my head. I like you _very, very_ much, but I _can't._ Not like this. I need time, and I need some space, and I need us to get to know each other better, to get used to _talking_ to each other, because we can't keep leaping from assumption to assumption and escalating dramatically over something that doesn't even merit it."

"You're right," Granger said softly, folding her hands in her lap. "I'm sorry I tried to rush things. You're absolutely right, and I want— I mean, I'd really like for this to be, y'know, something we can both be proud of."

"Thank you," he said, smiling softly and wiping the tears from his face. "I knew you'd get it, Granger."

"Emotions are hard for me, but then again, like Harry says, there are some things even a PhD can't get away with not knowing, right?" she returned his smile, and he laughed breathily.

"I mean it, thank you. I mean it: I _like_ you, _so much_ , but that means I want to build something good with you. And don't worry," he hurried to say, noticing how she looked slightly disappointed, "it doesn't mean I want to see any less of you."

"No, I know," she said. "It just means we have to learn to be friends before we go any further."

"It's where all good love stories start, innit?" said Weasley, and she was startled when he reached out his hand to touch her fingers. "That's what I'd like to have with you, Hermione Granger. Can we give it another shot?"

She let her own fingers curl around his, their hands now clasped together in a warm, understanding hold. "If you'll have me."

"Oh, Granger," he said, his characteristically devious grin appearing once again. "I'd have you anywhere, anytime— even here, now, over this library table—"

"I thought you said we would take things slow!"

"Well, but when you offer..." he winked with exaggerated lewdness, and she laughed loud enough to attract unwelcome glances from the tables around them. She gave them all apologetic looks, then turned back to Weasley, who was tilting her head to look at her expectantly, the same smile settled comfortably on his lips.

"Yes, Ron," she said, and felt her heart skip again when he noticed how his eyes had glinted hearing his nickname spoken by her so familiarly. "Properly this time— let's give it another go."


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the brief lapse in updating... I took a few days off from writing to map out the rest of the story and get a concrete plan down for each remaining chapter, which is why you might notice the total number of chapters now appears as a nice, solid 58 rather than an ambiguous question mark! This should make updates a lot more regular— considering, of course, my ludicrously long summer to-do list permits.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind comments and kudos. They're all a joy to receive and it really keeps me writing to know others are enjoying it. :)

"Do you think she'll show?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

"Well, when breakfast with us last time was such a disaster—"

"You're not gonna wind her up again, are you, Ron?"

"Don't be silly, all of you, we _talked_ , we're smooth sailing now—"

"Doesn't mean she's _coming_ —"

"I tell you, she's going to show up. I know it."

"Are we gonna have to do the spoons thing again?"

"I don't know, is Ginny buying breakfast?"

"I will; considering that it's _8:59_ and she's still not here, it's a bet I can't lose..."

"That's what you said last time."

"Well, that was before _Lavender_ , wasn't it?"

"I vote we do the spoons thing again."

"Just because you want breakfast, don't you, Seamus?"

"I'd reconsider— you'll lose the bet, she's definitely not coming..."

"Have a little more faith in me, will you, Ginny? When has your big brother ever lied to you?"

"Oh, I don't know, shall we go through the top fifty times or do you just want one example?"

"Guys, I hate to be this person, but I really, _really_ don't think she's coming—"

The doorbell for the Three Broomsticks suddenly rang out, plunging the table into silence. In the doorway stood a flustered-looking, slightly-sheepish Hermione Granger, like a repeat of a few weeks back, except dressed for a colder season. Around the table, everyone was quiet, looking around at Ginny and at Ron, before their heads collectively turned toward Granger in the entrance.

And then, to the general discontent of most patrons there that morning, everyone who wasn't Ginny —who was just as happy as everyone, but Ron was _never_ going to let her hear the end of this— broke out into a cheer.

* * *

"Fancy spot for an academic study, huh?"

"The courtyards are nice this time of year," said Granger, looking around the old stone buildings lined in autumn's auburn from the surrounding trees.

Just like yesterday, at the library, Weasley sat across from her, in similar homemade woolen attire (but which today, Granger noticed, boasted a big golden R emblazoned across the jumper's chest) at one of the small foldable tables that lined the inner courtyard of the Humanities quadrangle at the University. Instead of two steaming cups of tea between them, everything on the table now suggested work: Granger's notes were sprawled before them, a chunky pencilcase taking up most of the table space, and an outdated recorder (which Granger nonetheless swore by, since they were the linguistics department's property and had never before failed a researcher) flashing its sole, blinking red light up to signal it was capturing every single word.

"Sure are," Weasley remarked, looking around as well. "This is what you think about when you think about a university. Buildings older than most anything, trees with their leaves turning red, students milling about peacefully, spires reaching up to the sky... Not the labs, really, which makes it ironic that that's where I've spent most of my University time."

"You've never been here, then?"

"Why would I have been? I had no reason. You might find it hard to believe, what with how dashing I am, but this is the first time a cute PhD asks me over for an afternoon in the Humanities courtyard." Noticing Granger beginning to tinge red, he gave her a mischievous wink. "But, of course, this isn't a date."

"No, not a date, we're taking it slow," said Granger hurriedly, as much to remind herself as to agree with Weasley. "This is merely a session for us to talk about the linguistics project, and for me to ask you about scientific language, and that's it."

"Well, then, let's get started on the session, shall we? You've got that poor recorder puffing away harder than it has since it recorded the birth of Mathusalem—"

"Oh, it's not _that_ old—"

"—and you haven't even asked me a single question," Weasley finished, placing his hands casually behind his head and leaning back in his chair in his characteristic manner. "So?"

"Alright, then," Granger said, flipping to a blank page in her notepad and neatly inscribing 'RONALD WEASLEY, PHYSICS DEPARTMENT' at the top. She had a flash of the last time she'd written his name like this, when she and Harry had first been brainstorming candidates for the project, and when it had sounded altogether too familiar for a reason she couldn't quite recall. "Question number one: do you find yourself using mostly professional lingo when speaking to your colleagues in your field?"

"I think you'd agree with me that it's hard to be civil to McLaggen and the rest of those gits, let alone _professional._ "

"That's not what I meant," laughed Granger. "And you said that on the record, mind you."

"So what? He knows I hate him. No, in all seriousness, I don't think I use that many big words or technical terms when I talk to other physicists— or most anyone, really. It's not really how I am. Sure, I'll toss around terms like 'string theory', and 'electron uncertainty', and 'Higgs boson', because it's refreshing to know they'll understand them instead of just staring back blankly, but I don't think I change much about my demeanor."

"That actually sort of answers my next question, I was going to ask whether you change anything about your manner of speech when you speak to people outside your academic field."

"I mean, I've said it, I'm a casual guy through and through, only thing I'd say changes is the amount of technical terms I use— but even then, that's just because they're necessary to communicate in the lab, not really to impress others or to fit some high-and-mighty idea of a physicist."

"Alright then, I think it's clear. Now, question three—" her breath hitched, suddenly acutely aware of how Weasley's leg had brushed up against hers under the table.

"You okay there?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly alright," said Granger, clearing her throat, trying to dispel the wish that he'd only let it _linger_ a bit longer. "As I was saying, question three: what are some of the most common words used in your field or area of expertise?"

"Well, in quantum mechanics specifically, I would say it's impossible to speak without saying something like 'subatomic', 'atom', 'uncertainty principle', 'particle', 'wave', 'energy'—" he paused when he heard Granger gasp quietly again, unaware that in settling back into his chair he'd brushed her leg with his again. "Granger, are you sure nothing's wrong?"

"No, everything's fine, trust me," said Granger, hoping he would ascribe her cheeks' rosiness to the cold of the occasional breeze, and not his touch.

"I mean, I think I've listed most of the basic terms. Any more would be getting more into the specialized aspects, which I'm sure your project could do without getting bored with."

"I'm sure it's not boring," said Granger, surreptitiously tucking her legs under her chair, determined not to allow another collision to occur.

"Not to you, but that's just because you're a giant nerd," Weasley teased.

"Don't be that way, or it won't matter how interested I am in learning more about quantum mechanics because next time I see you like this I won't ask you about it—"

"Next time?" Weasley cut her off, raising an eyebrow cockily. "Only I thought this wasn't a date."

"It's not a date," said Granger in the same hurried tone, knowing it was hopeless to blame any coolness for how red she undoubtedly must look now. "I just mean, of course, next session..."

"Next _session_ , then. How awfully unromantic," he gave her a wink, and she gave up on trying to wrestle with whatever tricky inning he was trying to lure her into— she had a suspicion he liked to make her blush.

"If you're done, then, question four: do you think your personality-slash-demeanor could be in any way related to the field you move in, or the perceptions of those that work in it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, for example, do I fit your standard bill of a linguist?"

"I don't know anyone else who's a linguist, Granger, you _are_ my standard bill of a linguist."

"Oh, alright, if you want to be difficult— does Neville, for example, as a person fit your standard idea of a biologist? Like if you weren't friends with him, would you be able to say 'yep, that guy's a biologist'?"

"I don't go around pondering strangers' potential academic disciplines—"

"Oh, just answer the question!"

"Alright, alright," Weasley gave in— and leaned ever-so-imperceptibly forward, closer to Granger across the table. Unconsciously, she mimicked him. "I don't think I'm what you picture when you think about a scientist. I'm not some bloke with bottle-thick glasses, I'm not always in a labcoat, and I'm not unnecessarily prim and pompous. I don't know if you're catching my drift, but when I think of a scientist, I think about those fellows in the films that always look like they're running a stream of mental calculations. And I'm certainly not serious, and I don't wear bow-ties everywhere..."

"Okay, now you're just getting into a stereotype."

"Well, you did ask me if I felt I fit the bill of a _scientist_ ," he smirked, and Granger thought 'touché.' "A mad scientist, maybe, but I think I'd have so much more on my plate if I went around sticking parts of people together to bring them alive with a lightning bolt. I guess personality-wise this is what I've always liked to do: I've never been good with memorization, or with sticking my arse to a bench and writing page after page of pretty cursive sentences, but I could always dream. I could always imagine. Science seemed an extension of a natural ability to _wonder_ , and my mum was always nagging me for asking so many questions, so I suppose I turned to science as a way to get answers."

"But why physics?"

"I would've thought you'd know, Granger," he said, and leaned in even closer, close enough for Granger to begin to make out the freckles on his cheeks. "Wouldn't you like to know how the universe works at its most elementary level? Isn't that, in a way, the root of all answers to every single question ever asked?"

She could discern, dancing in his eyes, a wild glint that made it easy to picture him as that restless schoolboy all those years ago, refusing to stay in his seat and to stop pinning a question mark to everything he laid eyes on. Then again, she'd been much the same as a girl, feeling something like anger whenever something refused to be understood at first sight. "Is that so?" she asked softly, almost defiantly, sidling up in her chair to match up with him in proximity. "Is science just a massive bank of answers to uncover?"

"Isn't that what you do too, in a sense? A bit more literally, considering you dig up caves for old codexes and such, but don't you want to find answers too?"

"I suppose so, but my questions are of a different nature," she replied, and her legs swung back from where they were tucked behind the chair legs, relaxing in the incipience of an interesting discussion. "I don't want to know how the world works so much as how others have understood it. What they've thought of it, how they've interpreted it... and, of course, how they've expressed all that."

"Oh, so human expression, then," said Weasley, leaning forward as well when he noticed how Granger's posture had considerably loosened. "What sort of expression?"

"All sorts," Granger tried to say nonchalantly, but she'd noticed how much closer Weasley was now, too. "Cultural expression, political expression, societal expression, emotional expression..."

"Emotional expression, huh? I wonder, Granger, was your going to the Formal with McLaggen merely an expression of the emotion _jealousy_?"

Granger was bewildered: she knew Weasley was a tease, but to have him _so close_ , in a context they were both hopelessly trying to pretend wasn't romantic, and now quipping about _that_? She was quick with an answer, though: "More like a way to make _you_ jealous, if we're being completely blunt here, which I suppose worked."

"I can't believe my ears: Hermione Granger let Cormac McLaggen take her to the Autumn Formal to make _me_ jealous."

"Well, you're the physicist— doesn't every action have an equal, opposite reaction? Was that what Ms. Brown was, as well?"

"Stellar application, Granger, I can see you learned your secondary school physics quite well," Weasley winked.

"I'm going to take that as a yes."

"You may be right, you may not... Didn't I tell you we physicists sure love the uncertainty principle?"

"Alright, mister, but you seem to have let me believe that you quite liked questions, so let me pose some more to you, considering this is clearly _not a date_ —"

"Definitely not a date."

"—but a _session_ , a research _session_ , for a publicity project."

"Right. And now that you're done reminding yourself of that, let's go back to the session, shall we?" Weasley grinned cheekily, and Granger had half a mind to fire back some indignant retort before she realized it would only spur him to continue— and she didn't think she could take it much longer, feeling wisps of his breath on her skin and the electrifying proximity of his leg, even clad in trousers, underneath the table.

"Very well, question five: in your field of study, do you feel words convey concepts most easily, or are you more partial to gestures, sounds, diagrams, models, sketches, or any other type of nonverbal representation?"

"I feel like a vast majority of the sciences benefit from explaining with things that _aren't_ words. I think the actual language can be so dense and technical sometimes that what you need is a good visualization. I, for example, understood wormhole theory when it was explained to me with a tube of toilet paper and a leftover saran wrap from a sandwich my professor had purchased for his lunch. The same goes for the atom, and most tenets of science: when you think of an atom, you don't think of the _definition_ of an atom, but of that swirly, loopy thing with rings around it and little spheres, despite the fact that an atom actually looks nothing like it. It's because we _need_ technical terms, sure, but understanding comes easier when you can actually _see_ what you're supposed to be wrapping your head around. But then again," he said, his voice dropping a few tones, and now he was close, unbearably close, his legs pressing against hers, his face so close she could discern each individual stroke in his pale blue iris, "I find that there's a lot of things that are better understood with words in the middle, wouldn't you agree?"

A shiver traced Granger's spine, and she sat upright again abruptly, almost knocking her chair back. Her face was flushed and positively burning; she was sure she was as red as Weasley's jumper, and the goosebumps crawling on her arms made it evident just how much his sudden touch had flustered her. "Okay, well," she sputtered out, struggling to sound collected as she stood up clumsily, "I think that'll be all for today." She reached with a trembling hand for the recorder, struggling to hit the button to stop the recording— what was it about his touch this time that had made her shudder? She'd held his hand, for God's sake, she'd almost kissed him a couple times now...

Weasley reveled in how utterly disarmed she seemed, and stood up as well, a lot more smoothly than Granger had done. "Very well, then, Dr. Granger, I look forward to our next _session_ ," he said in an overly formal tone, extending a hand cordially. She begrudgingly reached out her own and shook it once, her grip feeble in his firm grasp. But he didn't let go when the handshake was over, but rather pulled her closer, so close their chests were only millimeters apart, and he whispered softly almost in her ear: "Now, I know this wasn't a date, Granger, but imagine how well it would've gone if it'd been one?"

She'd never hated her knees more for buckling.


	27. Chapter 27

Two brief, impatient knocks at the door of her office pulled Granger from her focus on digitalizing her notes. "Come in!" she called out, mildly grateful to whomever it was for a reason to give her cramping fingers a small break.

However, her gratitude was short-lived: when the door pushed open, there stood Lavender Brown, flanked by an uncomfortable-looking Parvati Patil.

Granger, despite how badly she wanted to just close the door back up (if she only had a magic wand to swing it closed from her desk!), could not give herself the luxury of being rude, so she plastered a smile she hoped look friendly onto her face and spoke in a pitch that was a bit-too-high to be deemed normal: "How can I help you, Lavender?"

Lavender, on the other hand, did not bother with formalities: "I'm dropping the project. I don't want to be part of your little research anymore."

Granger could hardly feel sorry: she hadn't ever conducted a session with Lavender, after all, so the research in itself wouldn't suffer because of her departure. "Okay. I'm sorry to hear that."

Lavender look baffled at a lack of greater opposition: "And so's Parvati," she motioned at her friend behind her, whose expression told Granger she would much rather have been left out of this. But Granger could hardly think poorly of her: Lavender was her best friend, after all, and sometimes that entailed sacrifices.

"I'm sorry to hear that as well," she said, and this time she meant it a bit more— Parvati seemed nice enough, and it was a shame she wouldn't be able to get to know her better. "Now, if you could both step in briefly, there's a termination contract you both need to sign."

She opened one of the bottom drawers and cleanly gathered a couple of the contracts she needed (her drawers were kept so neat and tidy she hardly ever had to rummage, let alone struggle to find anything), setting them on her desk and sliding them along it toward the other end, where Parvati and Lavender still stood stiffly. "Please, do take a seat," Granger encouraged them, and though Parvati did so with a thankful smile, Lavender seemed almost in a daze as she mimicked her.

Granger plucked two pens from a wooden, handpainted pencil holder and held them out to the two women. Again, Parvati took hers as if on cue and looking grateful, whereas Lavender seemed to be going through robotic motions, unable to wipe a sour expression from her face.

"The termination contract is really quite simple," began Granger, compelled to explain it as awkward as she felt talking to them like this. "It merely states that you have chosen no longer to participate in the study, I will no longer hold any of your information, and your name will not be associated with nor appear on any of the content derived from this research. Please, though, do take a moment to read it." She remained silent as the two women combed over the contract, eyes darting back and forth— from the speed at which Lavender's did it, she could tell she was anxious to get it over with and get out of there already.

Finally, they finished, Parvati leaving behind an elaborate flourish on the bottom line, Lavender's more like a hurried scrawl. Parvati grabbed both contracts and handed them to Granger, who received them with an open hand and a calm smile.

"That's all I need from you," she said, placing the contracts into the second drawer now, where she kept the ones with the privacy notice that had awarded her a victory over Rita Skeeter. "I'm sorry we're losing you, but thank you for stopping by!"

Parvati thanked her politely again and turned to go, but Lavender remained firmly rooted in her chair, her stare fixated on Granger. "So, you and Ron, huh?" she finally said through gritted teeth, and Granger's heart dropped: yep, they were having the very conversation she'd wanted to avoid.

"We're not dating," she responded, rubbing her arms as if cold and looking to the side, anywhere but at Lavender's glare.

"No, but you will at some point, won't you?"

There was no point denying it: "Yes, I suppose we will," Granger sighed, and looked back at Lavender, this time forcing herself to not look away.

Lavender's face contorted in an acerbic smile. "Congratulations, then," she said softly, her tone laden more heavily with danger than with well-wishing. "You got the guy. Even after you doused him with boiling tea, when I was sure that was gonna make him give up on you forever, he still went crawling back to you."

"Well, that was his choice—" Granger scoffed, in a flustered attempt at a defense.

Lavender held a hand up, and Granger took the cue, desisting from her sentence and falling silence. "I'm not here to listen to you justify anything. I don't care about what you have to say. All I'm here to tell you is exactly that— congratulations. And that I hope whatever happiness you two get lasts you for a long time before you both inevitably realize what horrible people you're dating."

With that, she stood up from her chair, spun on her heels, and walked out of the room with her chin held high, but without looking back. Parvati, speechless, seemed to have remained frozen throughout this whole exchange, but was roused by Lavender's exit.

"I'm so sorry," she said to Granger, looking concerned, "she's usually nicer, she's just very hurt..."

"Don't worry," Granger said, making a dismissive wave with her hand and finding it easier to sound friendly with Lavender gone (she had nothing against Parvati, after all). "I get it. Go after her, I think she's going to need to vent."

Parvati nodded, gave her one last apologetic smile, and followed Lavender out the door, shutting it softly as she left.

Granger remained standing behind his desk, still rubbing her arms as if trying to warm them up, mulling over Lavender's words. _Before you both inevitably realize what horrible people you're dating_. She gave an involuntary shudder, shook her head to dismiss Lavender's undue nastiness, and —to her surprise— laughed and resolved to be a little nicer than usual to Weasley today.

* * *

The next knock at an office door of the day came from her own hand, in a short burst of rhythmic raps at the thick door of Shacklebolt's office. "Come in!" bid her the deep, rumbling voice from within, and she pushed the door open with the hand she'd knocked with, the other hand cradling the same plastic folder containing the signed contracts she'd taunted Rita with.

"Ah, Dr. Granger!" Shacklebolt greeted her lithely as she shut the door behind her.

"Sorry for the delay," she told him, setting the folder on his desk. "I had to attach a termination contract to a couple of these —Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil came in this morning to withdraw from the study— and file the termination with the research records. Anyway, here they are."

Shacklebolt placed his reading glasses, which hung from a chain around his neck, on the tip of his nose, and opened the clasp to the plastic folder to take the contracts out. He paged through them slowly, skimming over to check whether each one was emblazoned with a signature at the bottom, and placed the stack back into its folder when he was done, handing it back to Granger.

"Well, everything seems to be running smoothly," he gave the verdict— which, even after all these years, signaled an approval that was music to Granger's ears. "Technically speaking, of course. I still need to review the content you have until now, for feedback, and the research plan, for any suggestions."

"I brought it," said Granger, handing him another stack of neatly-printed paper held together with a butterfly clip. "The profiles of each participant, a transcribed copy of all my interviews until now, and an outline of where I'm taking the project from here to the end."

"Exemplary, as usual, doctor," Shacklebolt said: he liked a job well done, and Granger always delivered. "Thank you. I should be able to get back to you about these in a little over a week, or so."

"In your own time, sir," Granger said hastily, still a bit of a teacher-pleaser. "I'm in no rush."

"You can proceed with the research in the meantime, no need to halt it."

"Oh, good, because I'm meeting Mr. Longbottom tomorrow at the botany greenhouse for a session I'm particularly excited about."

"A greenhouse session, eh?" Shacklebolt said, his smile peering from atop the stack of papers he was leafing through. "That sounds like fun. By the way, did you know he's going to be _Professor_ Longbottom soon? Professor Sprout, the biology faculty head, says his proposal for a doctoral thesis is among the best she's seen in years."

Granger smiled: Shacklebolt was an imposing figure and a stellar mentor, but part of why she liked him so much were these little interjections where they almost felt like two friends gossiping. "He deserves it— he works so hard, and his friends give him so much flack for everything, it'd be very nice for him to have this."

"I hope you don't mean to say they bully him."

"Oh no, Dr. Shacklebolt, it's just teasing in good fun— we're all grown up now, we can act the part."

"Well, about that, actually— it reached me from somewhere that you've been to see Rita Skeeter over some romantic scandal, of sorts?"

"You make it sound so schoolish," Granger said, vaguely embarrassed. "She merely posted a picture on the University Twitter that implied me and Draco Malfoy —you're familiar, he's a chemist—, anyway, that we were romantically involved. I asked her to take it down, since it was false and it was interfering with my personal life, and when she resisted, I just gave her the same privacy notice you OKed for my own project. Surely you won't object?"

"No, not at all— Rita has always had a flair for theatrics, after all," said Shacklebolt, with such evident distaste that Granger couldn't help but smile to herself. "I don't doubt that you acted in good judgment; I trust you to know what's best for you, after all. But she seems to have it out for you now, Dr. Granger, so I'd be careful in your future... proceedings with her."

"I mean, it's fine, what can she do, right?" Granger tried to say flippantly, but Shacklebolt's stern expression told her that wasn't precisely what he was searching for in her response.

"We may not like her much, Dr. Granger, that much I _will_ say, but I would be careful with her. I do have to listen to her to a certain extent, after all, and she's in her job for a reason. She's Head of PR; you're entrusted with a special project. I know you're not one to toe the line in terms of your boundaries, but even then, be careful: when it comes to certain things with her, my hands are tied, and it won't make matters easier if you're not on her good side."

"I'll be careful, Dr. Shacklebolt, you don't have to doubt that," Granger said, letting his words stew with her— when Kingsley Shacklebolt told you to watch out for someone, you listened, after all.

"I don't," Shacklebolt said, smiling reassuringly. "Well, that's all from me for at least a couple of weeks, Dr. Granger, and after that I'll get back to you with feedback on the project. Come back anytime after the Wednesday after next. So far, though, I have no question that it is something stellar."

"Thank you, Dr. Shacklebolt," Granger said, turning slightly rosy at his words.

"And you enjoy your visit to the greenhouse tomorrow," Shacklebolt said, winking knowingly. "God knows we Humanities types would benefit from being outside the library and in nature more often."

"Even if that nature is contained in a building?"

"Even then," Shacklebolt laughed, and a smiling Granger took that as her cue to leave.


	28. Chapter 28

It wasn't until the stifling heat started asphyxiating her that Granger realized she _may_ have overdressed for the greenhouse. In a cloud-grey cardigan and a pair of tight, peach-colored capri trousers, she realized that an outfit that would be considered "light" for standard British fall weather in a greenhouse was akin to donning a fur-lined coat at a tropical beach.

Neville —who was better-dressed in a Hawaiian shirt screaming with color and a pair of khaki cargo shorts— seemed to be in his natural habitat, promenading comfortably through the aisles between each row of plants. "What no one tells you about being a biologist," he remarked as he trailed a finger delicately along the leaf of a pink blossom, "is that you have to be a bit of an artist as well. When you look through a microscope, the hardest part isn't actually focusing the lens or placing the slide (though that's a bit of a pain in the arse, too, not gonna lie), it's being able to translate what you're seeing onto a paper sketch without losing too much detail."

"I'd go crazy trying to draw cells," said Granger, who was jotting down some of Neville's points in her trusty clipboard while keeping a watchful eye on the recorder tucked firmly under her thumb, pressed up against the same clipboard. "All those little tails and spores and spots... I'd feel like I was trying to recreate a paisley pattern."

"Sometimes it does feel that way," chuckled Neville, moving on to another pot with Granger hot on his heels to ensure he remained within recording distance. "But you get used to it. Though, I will admit, it never gets old to see those minuscule cells squirming under the lens. So drawing them is bearable."

Granger recalled what Weasley had said during that day at the Humanities courtyard —the mere thought of it made the skin on her legs crawl pleasantly, a phantom of his trousers brushing against them— about visualization and the sciences, and thought she might be picking out a pattern here. Just to be sure, though, she brought it up with Neville: "Weasley —Ron— said something similar the other day. About how scientific concepts are best understood when you visualize them."

"I would certainly say that's true," said Neville, with his back turned to Granger and facing a particularly large orchid (which was just as well, because she didn't catch his flicker of a grin when he heard her mention Weasley's name). "Especially for me. I've been bad at words since I was in grade school— drawings are so much friendlier, and a lot less technical."

So there was an area of coincidence between two of her scientists! Granger made a quick note of it, to remind herself to remark upon the similarity, and then turned back to Neville. "That does it for our session, then! Thank you for answering all my questions, Neville, you're a darling."

"My pleasure," Neville said, making his way toward a cupboard in the corner. "I hope you won't go yet, though. Now that I'm not under the spotlight, I'd love to just show you around the greenhouse."

"Oh, that would be lovely!" Granger said, clasping her hands: she didn't know much about plants, and she supposed this was a bit like a guided museum, but for botany, wasn't it?

Neville's face positively lit up, and he tugged Granger by the sleeve toward a collection of snaking vines with long, red cylinders at the end. "When you think of flytraps," he said a little short of breath, "you think of _Venus_ flytraps, right? But these, at least for me, are so much cooler— pitcher plants, _nepenthes muluenses._ They attract bugs with nectars, they enter the plant to drink, and then SNAP!" he yelled and snapped his fingers right in front of Granger's nose, which made her jump backward. "The lid closes and the bug is trapped inside." He ended his explanation with a boyish grin that did not at all suit the macabre pleasure he seemed to derive from the pitcher's plant mechanism.

Granger gulped and smiled with what she hoped didn't look too much like a grimace: "That's... very interesting."

"Oh, that's only the tip of the iceberg," Neville said excitedly, tugging her by the sleeve again as they wove around the greenhouse. After the initial morbidness of the pitcher plant, Granger found the other explanations more amenable, especially for the lilypads a meter long in diameter and the curious birds-of-paradise that peeked at them from the corner of the glass building. Neville raced eagerly between aisles, positively bubbling over with every fact he knew about the plants he so clearly adored, and Granger had to admit it was nice to be on the listening end, especially for someone who so rarely seemed to get a chance to just divulge his passions.

At the end, Neville stood by the greenhouse entrance and splayed his arms wide: "Well, that's it!" he declared cheerfully. "What'd you think?"

"Oh, it's lovely," Granger said genuinely, looking around the greenhouse with new eyes. "I think I might come back here more often. Just to sit and relax, really— but of course, with a lot less layers on."

Neville laughed, but spoke less boisterously, almost confidentially: "Nice spot for a date too, huh? You could easily bring someone here..."

The full force of what he was implying hit Granger, and all of a sudden her comment about 'less layers' felt awfully risqué. "Neville, Weasley and I are taking a break," she said, hoping the exaggerated rasping of her clearing her throat would distract from how red she'd suddenly gotten. But hey, at least the heat would excuse it— didn't everyone flush when it was sweltering?

"But not _definitely_ , right?" Neville said in the same tone, and Granger was not sure she'd been prepared to handle this unexpected cheekier side of the man she'd always seen as a shy, gentle (if a little simple) presence. She was desperate to steer the conversation in a different direction, but to her knowledge she and Neville had very little in common, interest-wise, aside from their respective passions for their academic disciplines.

 _Academic disciplines!_ That was it! She gave thanks to heaven for her brief exchange with Shacklebolt yesterday, and seized onto the one fact she knew Neville might be happier to talk about than she and Weasley: "So, Neville, should I expect to be calling you 'doctor' anytime soon? Dr. Shacklebolt told me Dr. Sprout is singing praise about your thesis proposal."

Neville adopted the same bright expression, and Granger slumped slightly with relief: she could tell that had been that on the subject of Weasley. "Gosh, that's so kind of him! Yes, I got it approved just a couple days ago— she's positively chuffed."

"What's it about?"

"I want to see whether there are any differences in the creation and storage of ATP in plant and animal mitochondria," Neville said nonchalantly, throwing out terms as if they were casual lingo, and Granger was a little surprised her limited knowledge of cell structures from biology back at school, almost ten years ago, was enough to carry her over.

"I can't say I know too much about that, but I know you'll do splendidly," she beamed at Neville, relieved at Weasley-as-conversation being long left behind, and leaned back against one of the metal tables that lined the greenhouse, feeling the foliage of the plant behind her and on the table tickle her back a bit as her palms supported her on bent elbows. She sighed contentedly: "It's honestly a little hard to believe something so extravagantly beautiful exists on this campus. Say, Neville, you must have a ton of practice sketching, haven't you? Don't you ever just want to come here and sit and just sketch out some of these flowers?"

"Oh, I do that," suddenly piped up a quiet voice from a corner, startling Granger so badly she jumped backward and bumped the table, the plantpots on it rattling menacingly. She looked toward the corner the voice had come from: on a stool, sitting ramrod-straight with a sketchpad in hand and sunglasses with mismatched color lenses (one pink, one blue, like 3D glasses in pastel), looking at Granger with a curious expression and her head cocked to one side like an owl's, sat Luna Lovegood.

"Luna, you frightened me," Granger laughed nervously, trying to downplay it (to no avail, for the faint but present sound of the pots still shifting betrayed just how hard her shock had made her bump the table.

"Why?" Luna asked— such a plain but out-of-place question that Granger could do little than stare back dumbfounded.

Neville came to the rescue: "Luna comes often to keep me company while I tend to the plants. I've a few of her sketches framed in the biology department."

"Luna! I didn't know you drew— I took you for a psychology major and that was quite all!" cried Granger, a bit too condescendingly, in Luna's direction.

"I could've studied art," Luna said dreamily, without raising her gaze from the sketchpad her hands were racing laboriously over, "but Daddy says if you do what you love as a job you betray it because the money corrupts the part of your heart devoted to it."

The blunt, matter-of-fact way in which she said such a statement puzzled both Granger and Neville, who looked at each other briefly before deciding it was little use trying to pick apart Luna's oddities.

"By the way," Luna chimed in again, her stare through her glasses still fixated on the paper, "I thought your lecture last Thursday was particularly interesting, Dr. Granger. Not quite as much as the one the Monday before, but still very engrossing."

Granger wondered why she'd never noticed Luna in any of her lectures —her eccentric outfits and rambunctious blonde hair made her easy to spot—, but then again, if she'd managed to go unnoticed in a greenhouse as cramped as this, it would be fruitless to try to pinpoint her in a lecture hall four or five times its size.

"I can give you this sketch," Luna said again, seemingly unbothered by Granger's lack of response. "I'm sketching the pitcher plant Neville showed you. I'd be happy to give it to you so you can put it in your office too, if you like."

Granger was about to decline it when a flashing thought crossed her mind: it had been an odd part of the day, certainly, but a dearly memorable one, and she doubted she could find a better souvenir that encapsulated all that than a Luna Lovegood original of a plant that had thoroughly creeped her out. Her grin this time was a genuine one, free of any of the lingering awkwardness that so often permeated her interactions with Luna: "I would love that."

* * *

Across campus, sat at Dr. Aurora Sinistra's desk in the Faculty of Physics, Ron Weasley was having a considerably worse day.

The reprimand had finally come: when Sinistra had summoned him here, he could tell her sharp tone was different from her usual stern demeanor, and dreaded the eventual meeting for that very reason. He had, much to his misfortune, been right: for the past twenty minutes of so, he'd been on the receiving end of a particularly serious scolding from his mentor.

"Can you explain to me what happened with the samples, again?"

"Professor, I swear they were on my workstation," he said, almost pleadingly. "I'm not sure what happened with them, and I have no basis with this, but I think McLaggen might have something to do with it—"

"Again with Mr. McLaggen," Sinistra sighed exasperatedly.

"Professor, I mean it!" he said a bit more desperately. "I'm not some... some conspiracy theorist, or anything, but he's got it out for me, and on the day he went missing he'd been taunting me—"

"Mr. Weasley, I don't doubt that there's a possibility that Mr. McLaggen was involved, but I wish he would stop being the butt of your excuses," Sinistra cut him off sharply, and Ron, surprised, canned it. "Do I like him? Speaking quite candidly —and, obviously, knowing it won't leave this office—, no, I'm not particularly fond of him. But that does not mean I will tolerate accusations that are, objectively speaking, quite baseless. He can be mean, but that's not reason enough for me to take your word as fact."

Ron drew in a sharp breath: she was a scientist through and through, wasn't she, and objectivity ought to rest at the top of her values, didn't it? He found himself, even in the hot seat, making a mental note to tell Granger about it later. She might be interested— a career scientist like Sinistra, talking about objectivity in such sharp tones, that might give her some more insight into the language of scientists. He quickly stifled a careless smile threatening to make its way onto his features: surely Sinistra would not tolerate a surefire ( _objective_ ) proof that his mind was elsewhere than her serious reprehensions.

"Look, Ronald," Sinistra sighed, more dejectedly this time, dropping the academic height-and-might a bit to address him directly. "I don't want to do this. You have talent. Sheer, undeniable talent— more than many in this department, much much more. But you don't have discipline. You're messy, you're disorganized, and the only consistency you've shown me the past two terms has been to be _consistently_ late on every single deadline. Trust me when I say this is the last thing I want to do, but if this continues, I will have no choice but to remove you from the PhD program. Are we clear?"

It was crystal clear, but Ron could still do little but remain frozen in his spot, his heart pumping blood audibly up into his ears. _Goddammit— so it's come down to this, at last_. The fact that he'd known it might be coming —McLaggen had done much to reinforce the sense of impending doom, after all— didn't soften the blow one bit. "Yes, Professor Sinistra," he finally replied, a little dully.

"Good," Sinistra said. Then, in a gesture of surprising earnest, she reached a hand out to place it momentaneously on Ron's. "I'm not entirely unkind, Mr. Weasley. I can give you a few more months. Just get it together before March, will you? That's when the first progress reports of that term are due to the Faculty Board, and I would be elated to have something good to report on. Alright?"

"Thank you, Professor," Ron said in the same mute tones, relieved that he had time but feeling humiliated at how it had, after all, come to this. 

Professor Sinistra, with a couple of fraternal pats on the back, showed him out of his office, and suddenly he found himself in a hallway of the Physics Department with a closed door at his back, feeling slow and utterly devoid of direction.

And then rage took over.

He could feel the blood rising to his ears again, and it was that rush of anger that propelled him forward, storming through the hallways of the Department toward its exit, his head practically bursting at the seams with red-colored thoughts. He was on thin ice now, thinner than ever, and it was all that prat McLaggen's fault! _If he hadn't taken my samples, if he hadn't taken his every chance to undercut me..._ Sure, he had to admit some responsibility (he'd never cared much for order, after all, and he'd never seen the point of cleaning up after himself, however annoying that was to his labmates), but the fact of the matter remained that if he was hanging by a thread now, it owed no small debt to McLaggen's vendetta against him. 

So profoundly was he immersed in mentally paging through a growing list of images of a brutal murder of which McLaggen was _conveniently_ the victim that he didn't notice he was out on the street until a familiar voice broke through his ire.

"Ronald! Ronald!" came the call from behind him, and he turned around to see Granger running toward him, a gray cardigan slid partially off her shoulder. Man, she was a sight for sore eyes, especially right now: at least Sinistra's grave ultimatum went down better when you mixed a spoonful of Granger in. She finally caught up to him, beaming. "I'm sorry I'm so untidy," she said —though what Granger considered 'untidy' Ron would've probably thought too formal to even meet the Queen—, brushing back a curl that had stuck to her forehead with— sweat? "I've just come from the greenhouse, Neville and I had a session, and I was probably a bit overdressed." She noticed that, despite serving up the opportunity to tease her on a silver platter, Weasley had merely smiled faintly, and she frowned. "What's the matter?"

He needed to tell someone, anyone— might as well be Granger, right? "I just met with Professor Sinistra," he huffed, brushing his hair out of his eyes as well. "She's given me an ultimatum. Either I get my shit together by March, or I'm off the Physics PhD program."

The joviality drained from Granger's face, and her usual serious expression regained domain of her features: "What do you mean?"

"She says I'm too messy, and she's tired of dealing with my messes," Weasley chuckled humorlessly, surprised to find his flaring anger had lost no strength. "I mean, I saw it coming, but it still feels like utter shit. I'm going to do something about it, eventually, but I don't really want to think about it right now."

He expected her to press him further, to receive a lecture about academic responsibility from the youngest PhD the University had ever pushed out, but he was surprised when she remained silent, merely grabbing his hand and squeezing it lightly. He looked at her, and found her beaming. "So let's not talk about it."

He squeezed her hand back, reassuringly, and felt a current of warmth pass between their touch before she let his hand go a bit too abruptly. She cleared her throat and again let the same brightness she'd brought down from the greenhouse leak onto her features: "Now, what do you say we make good on those Godric's reservations?"

"Those _what_ now?"

"Remember? When I saved you from McLaggen, the day of your session with Luna?" she looked at him eagerly, and he hoped she could see in his eyes' glint that he, in fact, remembered. "I got you out of there saying we were gonna be late for our reservations at Godric's, but we never went, so what do you say we do that now?"

"Won't it be chock-full?" Weasley said, but his expression was beginning to lighten up too.

"Oh no, it's lunchtime; the vast, vast majority of the reservations there are made for dinner, 'cause that's when most go."

"But we're not like most," Weasley smiled, and surprised her by reaching for her hand again, his grip firmer this time than the looser touch of her earlier reassurance.

Granger allowed a glimpse of surprise to flicker across her face, but quickly returned to her affectionate beam, and squeezed his hand again without letting go of it this time. "No, we're not like most, you and me." She took a step forward, toward Hogsmeade Lane, and tugged him playfully behind her without releasing her hold, getting him walking beside her in no time. "Now walk with me; let's cheer you up."


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, we're halfway there! It seems like so much and yet so little to go— but it's nice to know we, along with Dr. Granger and Weasley, are headed in a good direction. :)
> 
> Edit: thank you to the wonderful @chemrunner57 for helping me catch a couple of embarrassing places where I called it "soccer" instead of "football".

Granger locked up the door to her office, satisfied with her work for the day, and didn't make it but a few steps outside the Linguistics Faculty before a blur of red hair and ripped denim ambushed her.

"Hermione!" cried Ginny, placing both her hands on Granger's shoulders to halt her as soon as her friend stepped out of the building. "Thank God I caught you— what are you doing this afternoon?"

Granger rifled mentally through her schedule for the day: "Well, I haven't got much planned, but I was planning on doing some yoga at the rec center in a few, and then I suppose just cooking dinner for myself... why?"

"Just as I feared," declared Ginny grimly. "You're not going to the game?"

"What game?"

"Christ, woman, how are you young?" Ginny said dramatically, shaking Granger by the shoulders. "The football game! Last one of the pre-elim round! Everyone's going!"

"Well, not everyone," scoffed Granger, seeing little importance in what Ginny was saying. "Surely not everyone is spending their afternoon like this—"

" _Everyone_ ," deadpanned Ginny, and only then did Granger see how serious she seemed to be on the subject of football.

"Alright, everyone, but not me... Football's not really up my alley, Ginny, and I won't be such a good spectator— I'm sure my time would be better spent elsewhere."

"Oh, come on, Hermione! What do you mean you're doing research on uni language and you've never actually been to a sports match?"

"I don't see what's so odd about it! Or what it has to do with language, for that matter."

"Seriously? The cheers, the yells, the interaction between fans? It's a thing of it's own— it's beautiful. C'mon, Hermione, you can't seriously say you've been a part of uni life, no matter how long you've been here, if you've _never_ been to a sports match."

"All this fuss over sports, you'd think this was an American college," grumbled Granger, a little abashed at having been called out at the lack of participation in regular, boisterous student life that had practically been her norm even since she was a first year.

"Alright, then, if I can't peer pressure you with that, I'll just tell you this: it's not one of _my_ games, though you should go to one of those too someday— Ron's playing." Ginny's eyes sparkled maliciously, as if sharing an unspoken joke between them whose punchline Granger did not like one bit.

"I wish everyone would stop saying that," Granger groaned exasperatedly, recalling Neville's insinuations from a couple days prior. "Why does everyone keep implying that I have these deep, underlying feelings for Ronald, or something, when it's not true?"

"Because it is," came Ginny's blunt reply again, with a mischievous wink, and Granger found herself utterly disarmed and unable to retort. _Dammit_ , was Ginny right? And too dumbfounded to evoke any more outright opposition, Granger allowed Ginny to lead her down to the football pitch, where a crowd of spectators bedecked in black and gold was streaming in masses toward what little bleachers remained unoccupied.

"We're never going to find a seat," said Granger nervously as they approached, hoping —deep down— that this would somehow dissuade Ginny from her endeavor.

"Hermione, really, do you think there wouldn't be a seat for the _captain_ of the girls' team at one of the boys' matches?" Ginny said with a stern are-you-serious look; undeterred, she took Hermione by the hand and wove them both between the conglomerates of football fans, toward a couple of empty chairs at the front.

"Hiya, Demelza!" Ginny greeted her roommate, who was also seated in the front row, as they finally emerged from the suffocating masses of people toward two empty spots in the lowermost riser, closest to the pitch. Demelza gave them a friendly wave, which Granger was too uncomfortable to return, horrified at the fumes of body odor that seemed to be coming from the sweaty, packed-in fans (and that she'd never get off her cardigan...). She robotically mimicked Ginny as she took a seat at the bleachers, recoiling to think of whose butt had occupied the space before hers.

"But I don't know anything about football," she made a last-ditch plea to Ginny, a desperate hope that it would get her out of there. "How am I going to enjoy this if I don't know anything about football?"

"That's twice you've forgotten you're here with the captain of the girls' team," Ginny said, elbowing her softly in the ribs. "I'll explain everything you've got to know, like plays and positions and the like. Think of me as your own personal commentator," she winked again, throwing an arm around Granger's soldiers fraternally. "And besides, what is there to know? It's just a bunch of gits kicking a ball around a grass rectangle and trying to get it into the nets. Simple enough, right?"

"I suppose so," mumbled Granger, who had realized with a sinking stomach that she was doomed to spend what she thought would be a calm afternoon in the clutches of a barbaric sport.

"While it starts," said Ginny, switching her tone to a more hurried, more hushed one, "a few people tell me you and Ron were spotted at Godric's the other day around lunchtime..."

"Okay, let's talk about football!" blurted Granger, because if there was one thing she wanted to talk about _less_ than football, it was Weasley. She didn't quite know why— she liked him, after all, right? She liked him a lot, and she loved being close to him, and she supposed she did have a thing for him— so why was she so hesitant to talk about him with people who knew him better? Perhaps it was that she wanted to be her own person around them, unassociated to Ronald whatsoever. But it could also be the fact that he made her nervous: he made her shake, he made her start sweating, he made her short of breath and short of words. Maybe she wanted to spare himself this embarrassing nervousness around others, and could anyone really blame her for that?"

"Your wish is my command," Ginny said victoriously, unbothered by Granger's evasion of the subject because her football-related conquest over her had been fully completed now. "Now, I assume you know at least who we're playing against? It's been on all the faculty notice boards since a week ago."

Granger shook her head, and Ginny sighed: this was going to be a greater odyssey than she'd thought. "We're playing Durmstrang Polytechnic. They won the cup last year, and they've won pretty much every pre-elim game too, so even if they lose, they're in the next round. We are, too, so this is really a zero-stakes game, but it's still exciting when it's the last match before elims. We think if we pass to the final, this is who we're gonna be up against."

"The girls, too?"

"No, Durmstrang's girls are better at cricket than football, they've been unbeaten for the past twelve years or so, so obviously their resources don't really go towards their football. It's Beauxbatons School of Fine Arts that ends up against us every year— you'd think those artsy types wouldn't be great at sports, but there you are. I'll expect we'll see their boys' team in the male elims, too." Ginny was in full-fledged commentator mode, dexterously providing Granger with whatever background she considered she'd need to contextualize this match. "I assume you're familiar with the boys on our team?"

Granger swept the pitch with her gaze, trying to pick out any familiar faces: there was Harry (of course, he was captain), in the middle of the pitch, running through some stretches and warmups that made him look like he was doing a funny little jig; she was also surprised to see Dean standing idly off to one side, dressed in the uniform: he must've been asked to step in for someone today, she thought, and recalled him mentioning something about a game during their session last week— well, now she could put two and two together. She looked over toward the far end of the field and her heart skipped a beat when she spotted a familiar mop of red hair under the goalposts of the white net. She didn't know why she was so surprised: she knew Weasley played goalie, after all (a ball to the face had been more than enough for her to know that), but seeing him in action, his hair clashing horribly with the flamboyant gold of his jersey, was something different altogether.

"I know Harry, and Dean, and... your brother," she said hurriedly, trying to comb over that last one.

Ginny raised an eyebrow: her hesitance over Ron hadn't gone unnoticed, but she'd let it slide. "So that's three out of eleven, then. Let's start from the front: that big bloke with the black buzzcut is Marcus Flint, the striker, he's in charge of scoring the majority of the goals. He's got a bit of an ego, but he's good enough that it can be slightly overlooked. Next is the forward, Roger Davies, that tall boy with the floppy brown hair, he assists Flint with the scoring. That _other_ big bloke is Flint's buddy Graham Montague; he plays winger, meaning he's on the lookout for rebounds (that's when the goalie stops the ball and it bounces back toward you and you can score again) and just generally helping the other two." She looked to see whether Granger was getting it, and Granger gave a reassuring nod to say she was. Next, Ginny pointed toward the middle of field. "The midfield sort of plays both defense and attack, so it's super challenging because you have to be ready to switch outlook from one moment to another. A good midfield can _make_ the game, because if you stop the ball there and kick it over, there's no reason you should practically ever play defense. That's what Harry plays— central midfielder. The other midfielders are Dean, because he's subbing in for Adrian Pucey today as defensive midfielder, and the attacking midfielder's Zacharias Smith."

That name, finally, rung a bell with something Weasley had mentioned when complaining about his labmates during lunch the other day: "Your brother doesn't like him too much, does he?"

"No, he doesn't," Ginny said, her scrunched-up nose revealing she didn't think too highly of him either. "It's not just the lab. He's best buds with McLaggen, and y'know how Ron beat him out of the goalie spot? Well, Smith made practice miserable for him before Harry told him to stop it or he'd be off the team. It's not that Ron can't stand up for himself, of course, he just gets all flustered when it comes to football."

Granger nodded: with this, on top of what Weasley had told her about Smith over a plate of chicken salad, her mental profile of Smith wasn't exactly being constructed in the most flattering way.

Ginny continued: "The defenders pretty much all do what's in the name. Those are all a bit younger than most of the players I've talked about— in the center is Jack Sloper, the full-back there by the corner is Andrew Kirke, the wing-back is that small guy, Ritchie Coote, and the sweeper is that other lanky dude, Jimmy Peakes."

"That's only ten," Granger said, who'd been counting the positions mentally as Ginny listed them.

Ginny smiled surreptitiously: "I thought you'd need no introduction to my brother."

There it was, again, that furious flush she wished would stop flooding her cheeks at the slightest mention of Weasley! "No, of course," she stammered, trying to play it off casually.

Ginny laughed openly: "No, it's okay, I'm just teasing. But yeah, Ron's goalie, which is probably the most nerve-wracking position because once you've got a striker in front of you, all the stakes are on you. I'd crack under the pressure, honestly. He doesn't— at least not so often, he's a brilliant goalkeeper when he's not nervous..."

So Granger kept hearing, both from Dean and Seamus and now from his own sister, though she'd yet to see him in action.

"So let's hope he doesn't spot you," Ginny quipped, again nudging Granger, "because if he sees you in the crowd he's going to turn into an idiot and he'll lose us the game. Granted, today doesn't matter, but it's still nice to win."

"Then why'd you sit me up in the front?" Granger said, with a lot more ease than her initial tension, and Ginny laughed. Still, something in Granger stirred pleasantly at the thought that she could have that kind of... _effect_ on Weasley. That she could, to some extent, do the same to him as he unknowingly did to her every time the mention of his name injected her with those jitters she was becoming all-so-accustomed to.

The referee —a stocky, spiky-haired woman Ginny identified as Coach Hooch— blew her whistle, and the members of both teams stopped their warmup dances to congregate at their respective benches. The other team, Durmstrang Polytechnic, donned jerseys of an earthy, reddish orange, with their names and numbers printed in stark black on their backs. The University team bore sleek black jerseys with the names and numbers in gold, with only Weasley, the goalie, sporting the reverse color scheme.

"It's about to start," said Ginny, and sure enough, it wasn't long before Coach Hooch blew her whistle again and the men were on their way along and across the field, their limber, muscular legs carrying them strongly from one end of the pitch to another.

"Goooooood afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the last match of the pre-elim phase for this year's university football season!" rumbled a voice from the speakers that Granger hadn't noticed were set at each corner of the pitch. She traced the source to a tall man with dreadlocks who stood beside Coach Hooch, microphone in hand and his face split in a grin.

"Lee Jordan," Ginny explained hastily, seeing where Granger's gaze had trailed. "Best mates with my brothers Fred and George, the twins. He graduated long ago, he's got a wife and kids now, but he comes back every so often to be a guest commentator when he's in town. We don't complain— he's awesome."

And sure enough, the crowd roared enthusiastically at Lee's coaxing, just as gleeful to hear him as he seemed to be at just standing there, mic in hand. "Now, we all know both of these teams are going on to elims, so there's no need to be on the edge of your seat or have a heart attack over any gameplay today— it could just be a nice game to sit back and enjoy." He paused, for dramatic effect, before his voice boomed back through the speakers. "BUT WE WANT TO WIN, DON'T WE?" he bellowed, and he was met with another wave of thundering yells and cheers from the bleachers, filled to the brim with University fans who waved banners in the air and stomped their feet with such force that Granger was sure the bleachers would collapse.

"Now you see how it's a language?" Ginny shouted over all the ruckus, though her feet were stomping madly too. "It's a whole interaction! It's like a feedback loop— commentator feeds you, you feed him back! And that's how you keep the emotion mounting!"

Even Granger, the most reticent of football fans, had to admit that her chest was beginning to swell with something close to University pride, and what might e a desire to join in all the racket. Ginny was right: this was a powerful wave, one that swept you off your feet if you let your guard down, but for which putting down your defenses was the most enjoyable course of action.

And so she did: soon, as she watched the players zigzag madly between one another, sending the ball flying in long passes and short bursts of speed, she found herself hollering and hooting along with the rest, even daring to call out a (relatively) meek "Go, Harry!" when he stopped a Durmstrang boy from getting into their defensive side of the field. But if Granger thought _that_ had been loud, nothing could've possibly prepared her for how the risers positively exploded when Roger Davies and Marcus Flint tag-teamed on a spectacular goal that sent the Durmstrang goalie spinning to see where the ball had escaped him. _This must be the closest Britain gets to earthquakes_ , she thought as the risers shook and trembled with the force of the jumping, screaming fans.

"That's what it's all about!" screamed Ginny with a wild glint in her eyes, pumping her fist up in the ear. Granger noticed that a few strands had come loose from her ponytail, but she thought with a smile that this was the widest she'd ever seen Ginny smile. How could she have been so unwilling to explore a world that clearly meant so much to so many of her friends?

Before long, a relative peace returned to the risers, and the fans settled back down to continue watching the game eagerly. Durmstrang seemed to have taken great offense at the goal, and had now redoubled its attack efforts upon the University team. Its players moved in a formation resembling an arrowhead, heading straight for the goal Weasley was stationed at, with such steely determination that not even Harry, Dean, and Smith's combined efforts managed to repel them: they were in enemy territory now.

Granger found herself holding back an anxious gasp as she saw the Durmstrang players break through the first line of defense: just one more, and Weasley would find himself entirely at their mercy. When the four University defenders inevitably scattered, confused by the Durmstrang players' nimble and unified strategy, her hands flew to her face and she felt her teeth clamp down hard on her nails: this was it. But Weasley didn't look half as uneasy as she felt. His freckled face, in fact, was twisted with something that more closely resembled a steely defiance, a confident smirk that challenged the Durmstrang players to come closer.

Then the Durmstrang striker took back his leg and, with the full force it could muster, kicked the ball toward the net. Granger eked out something like a small whimper as she watched the ball sail toward the upper right corner of the net; he'd never get there in time— he wouldn't jump that high— it was in, it had to be in— and then he stopped it.

The risers exploded again, chanting Weasley's name now, every last fan just as euphoric with Weasley's spectacular save as the goalie himself must be. Even Granger called out "Way to go, Ronald!" with much more force than she'd cheered for Harry, swept up in the tide of elated relief like every last one of the people on the bleachers. Ginny didn't push out any coherent words: she merely shrieked as loudly as her lungs would let her, standing up to jump in her spot. "That's my brother!" she'd pant later, out of breath, to anyone around her. "My brother's goalie!"

When the emotions had settled down again, they sat down and watched as Davies, this time aided by Montague, again managed to score a goal, though not as flashy as the last. It was met with a relatively subdued reaction by the crowd, which was beginning to fall into the comfortable lull of a seemingly-assured victory.

"I'm so glad he's making those saves," Ginny remarked offhandedly when Ron, again, halted the Durmstrang strikers' stronger attempt to get past him. "He needed that boost of confidence, honestly. Let's hope it carries him all the way through elims, and we might have a shot this year..."

 _We_. Granger, ever an observant linguist, remarked upon Ginny's use of the plural first person. So this was yet another show of the unique language of sports and sports _aficionados_ , wasn't it? Even though Ginny played for the women's team, in a league entirely separate, and had nothing riding on how well the men performed, there was that commonality of spirit that seemed to be tying everyone on those makeshift bleachers together. Regardless of their program, their discipline, or any differences, there they were— all clad in gold and black, rooting for the same eleven guys. What an equalizing force!

Coach Hooch blew her whistle, signaling the first half of the match was over. The men from each team jogged back to their benches and huddled together, Coach Hooch remaining in the center of the pitch.

"Wow, that was forty-five minutes already?" said Granger, incredulous at how quickly the first half had elapsed.

"Goes by fast, doesn't it?" grinned Ginny, turning aside to greet another teammate from the women's team, who had come down to watch the game as well.

"Why isn't Coach Hooch with them?" Granger wondered aloud, remarking on the Head of University Athletic's lingering in the middle of the field and not near the conglomerate of sweaty black jerseys by the University bench.

"She's reffing, so she has to stay impartial," answered Ginny almost reflexively. "When they're away games, she coaches them too, but since she's in charge here she only gets to ref. Oliver's with them."

"Oliver?"

"Oh, I forget you wouldn't know him... Like Lee and Fred and George, he's a bit of an old-timer. He was captain and goalie when Harry was an undergrad. The man _lives_ for football, so he was happy to take the coaching on— he said he'd go crazy if he had to coach one more of his son's 7-through-10-years-old league matches."

"Didn't he use to play on the national team?" said Granger, recalling faintly one of the World Cup matches her father had watched over a summer she spent with him.

"The very one," said Ginny contentedly. "Everyone questioned why the hell he'd come back to University football after that, but he says he wants to give back to the team he's loved the most. Sure didn't sit well with the national team, mind you."

"You sure do know a lot of football players, don't you?"

"Runs in the family," said Ginny unquestioningly, as if it was a common thing to speak of world-class football players with such friendly familiarity. "Only two out of my six brothers haven't ever played football, but even Bill (that's the oldest one) has always been an avid fan. We're well-connected," she winked at Granger just as Coach Hooch's whistle went off again to call the players back into the pitch.

The second half of the match transpired without much ado: the 2-0 lead put the University comfortably ahead, and even the players seemed to be dialing back the energy with which they executed plays. They only amped it back up when an agile kick by a Durmstrang forward sank neatly into the net behind Weasley, who grabbed the ball and fumbled with it briefly before sending it back into the pitch.

"I hope he won't let that get to him," whispered Ginny. "Otherwise, we're as good as out."

After that, Granger wouldn't tear her gaze from Weasley: it was almost like a superstition, like as long as she looked at him nothing would get past him again, and so she felt almost obligated to keep her eyes on him, to set them firmly upon him until he was back to tip-top shape again. Not that she minded, really: she found she actually quite liked looking at Weasley without interruption, no matter how much flack it would earn her from Ginny later. It was almost enchanting: his brow was furrowed with concentration on the game, rearranging his freckles into patterns previously unseen but distinguishable even from a front-row distance. He stayed on the tips of his feet, balancing lightly back and forth, as if rocking himself would somehow keep him in motion for when another kick came his way. Though his arms were shrouded by a long-sleeve tight black shirt under his golden jersey, Granger could still tell his muscles were taut underneath, as were those of his calves under his socks. She liked the way he moved, she realized, and it was nearly impossible to look away from it.

All of a sudden, she found herself unable to control a stream of images into her mind, brief images of that lean body moving in a different way, closer to her— what were these thoughts? She wasn't usually one to think like this, and that scared her. A bit unsettled by how quickly this feeling had washed over her, she tried to push it out of her mind and refocused back on the game, still looking straight at Weasley, as if somehow that would make all the difference. Right as she did, a ball came flying his way and his hands caught it, keeping the score at its healthy 2-1. The spell was broken: she'd done it, hadn't she? She could give herself the luxury of looking away.

She did so voluntarily, sheepishly, as if concentrating on Harry or Dean or even one of the men she didn't know would somehow erase the fleeting thoughts of Weasley moving with as much vigor in a different setting and with less clothes on. The ball remained at the midfield for a few minutes, with struggling gameplay keeping it within bounds, before finally Harry kicked it through and Montague received it at Durmstrang's end of the pitch. He sent it straight at the net, but the Durmstrang goalkeeper held out his hands before his face as if frightened; the ball bounced off against it and went straight back to Davies, who executed an agile rebound that very narrowly made it into the net.

The crowd roared again with the enthusiasm of a last great cheer: there were only a few minutes left, after all, and that 3-1 seemed a comfortable place to leave the game at for both teams lest they become overtired before it actually mattered. The final few minutes of the game trickled by in a steady flow, even Lee's fiery commentary losing its usual intensity, with Harry keeping the ball at midfield to prevent any last surprise attack tactics by Durmstrang, until at last Coach Hooch blew her whistle to signal the end of the match— and, with it, of the pre-elim phase.

There was a last, roaring ovation coming from the bleachers, the fans rising in a tidal wave of black and gold, and a few scattered cheers continued to ring here and there until the players were all off the pitch, at which point the crowd began to disperse. The magic was over, but portions of it lingered in Granger's blood, like flakes of gold flowing gently through a rocky brook, and she felt thoroughly transformed by the experience of attending —and actively participating in— a sports match, after all these years.

"I need to hear you say it," said Ginny, as if reading the train of Granger's thoughts to know where her mind was going next.

Granger sighed and, with a smile, gave in: "You were right."

" _Thank_ you," said Ginny pointedly. "I expect that's not something just about anyone gets from Dr. Hermione Granger."

"And I expect I'll be hearing about it for years to come," said Granger, knowing Ginny a little too well to know she wouldn't just let a victory like this slide— she expected to be teased with it for a while after. Something about Ginny's poking fun reminded her all too much of Weasley: sure, they were brother and sister, but it was still a little dazing to notice so latent a resemblance every so often.

As if summoned by the fact that Granger's thoughts had again gone to him, a familiar voice suddenly reached Ginny and Granger from behind: "So, what'd you ladies think? Fit for the national team?"

"Won't be till you stop letting goals in," teased Ginny, turning around to give her brother a hug and a few slaps on the back. Harry soon appeared at Weasley's side, panting and turned a bright red with the effort of the game's last few minutes, and Ginny went to him to press a giant kiss onto his lips, never mind the sweatiness. Granger suddenly noticed Weasley standing before her expectantly, as if seeking a gesture of affection like the ones Ginny had bestowed on him and Harry. Ordinarily, Granger would've been happy to give him a friendly hug, but just as soon as she leaned forward her mind rushed again with the indecent images of Weasley that _wouldn't leave her alone_ , and she stumbled over herself to turn the incipient hug into an awkward handshake.

"Well... well done," she stuttered, trying to play it off as if she wasn't turning red at the mere touch of Weasley.

"Didn't think I'd ever find you at a football game, Granger," Weasley said with a boyish smile, and his pleased surprise was evident.

"Why the tone of surprise?" Granger smiled back, relieved at getting back to their usual friendly banter.

"Can I expect to see you back here anytime soon?"

"Well, considering you managed to go the whole ninety minutes without hitting me flat in the face with a football, I'd say there's a pretty good chance you might. _If_ we keep those hits to the face nil, of course."

"That's certainly an incentive to make _me_ work on my aim," laughed Weasley. He lost a bit of his jokiness then, and now spoke with earnest softness: "I'm thrilled to see you here, Granger, I really am."

At a loss for words, Granger merely relegated herself to smiling, first at Weasley and then down at the ground, and reaching out again to grab his hand like she'd done outside the physics lab just two days ago. She was getting the feel of it, she thought; there was definitely more of a comfortable confidence in this hold than there had been the first time she'd grasped his palm in hers.

As Ginny and Harry rejoined them, their fingers interlocked and Ginny clinging lovingly to Harry's arm, Ron regained his usual playful demeanor: "Though, you know what would make me even _more_ thrilled next time?"

"More than the miracle of my appearance here?"

"Even more. You know those streakers at some football games, the ones that lift their shirts and they've got the names of players painted across their breasts?"

Granger groaned in amused disgust, and smacked at his arm playfully with her free hand as Ginny made retching noises.

"I'm serious!" Ron piped up in hilarious defense, Harry roaring with laughter. "Think about it! You show support for the University, _and_ you seriously distract the other team!"

"The problem with _Granger_ flashing, my dear brother," Ginny said, still feigning disgust but unable to control a smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth, "is that it wouldn't precisely be a good distracting maneuver, because the only git drooling over her would be _you_ , and _then_ we're going to get absolutely nailed with goals."

"Fine, maybe there's no foolproof target, but it's still a stellar distracting maneuver."

"Keep it in your shorts," Ginny clicked his tongue at him and gave him a playful shove, as she and Harry began walking away from the pitch and back toward Hogsmeade Lane.

"She'd never get it," Weasley said to Granger, having taken mock offense. "I'd be happy to get Harry to streak at _her_ games, too. I'm sure he'd be happy to do it."

Granger laughed, and thought about how good this felt: it was a nice autumn afternoon, and she'd just watched her first football game, and she was here laughing, holding hands with a guy who made her feel and think things she would've never thought she had in her, that scared and excited her at the same time. And it felt _good._

Weasley seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he gave her hand a small squeeze and looked right into her deep brown eyes. "But I'm serious, Granger. Streaking or no streaking, I am positively over the moon that you're here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research is a funny thing: when you've got to do it for a scholarly summer assignment, it seems like the worst thing in the world, but then you find yourself several pages into the HP Wiki's entries on the House Quidditch teams and there are over seven items on your search history reading "soccer positions listed and explained" and it feels like the lightest thing in the world. I hope it was worth it for this read. :)


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a long and inconsequential chapter— expect a lot of songs and character thoughts, particularly toward the end. I'll add a TL;DR in the end notes if you find you'd like to skip through some of the music stuff in this and just get to the bare bones of what happened.
> 
> Suffice it to say, again, that I do not own any of the songs or albums referred to in this chapter, even if I do think they're all great and do nicely for a reading accompaniment. :)

"I'm glad you could come on such short notice," said a pleased Shacklebolt as Granger took her usual seat in front of him, across his desk. Shacklebolt had finished in less than the two weeks he'd asked Granger to wait, and had summoned her to his office via an unusually jovial email that left it clear he'd been delighted with what he'd seen, and would love to discuss it with her at her earliest convenience.

Granger, never uneager to make time for her mentor, had diligently reported to his office, her small notebook in hand ready to jot down Shacklebolt's notes on her work, knowing Shacklebolt's slow and steady speech pace would make it easy to do so.

Now Shacklebolt exercised that pace as he went through a list of comments he'd made while reading through the material, his thin reading spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose: "I think you're on a great track, Dr. Granger. I like the information you're collecting, and the profiles you're building, and I think your questions have been hitting the nail squarely on the head. I'm excited to see what comes of this, having seen your process, and I now know I was right to commission you with it." Granger shifted in her seat a little smugly, basking in Shacklebolt's praise, but he wasn't yet done. "But..."

Her heart sank a bit: _but?_

"But I think you're staying inside the box a little too much, so to say," Shacklebolt continued, impervious to the dread that had stemmed from Granger's ever-present need to please. "Don't get me wrong, I think every good research process _needs_ to integrate the basics, but where's the zest? Where's the life? Where's the novelty?"

"I don't understand," stammered Granger, alarmed at how little sense this seemed to be making.

"I don't mean to say it's boring, not at all," Shacklebolt said, and his tone conveyed honesty. "I mean it's all a little _too_ conventional— the interviews, the profiles, the sitting-down-over-coffee and asking... You're a young scholar yourself, Dr. Granger. Surely you can think of fresher ways to convey the spirit of the University than just interviews?"

Granger struggled to find a response, gawking at Shacklebolt as if in disbelief at what he was asking. When the door behind her creaked open, she thought she'd never feel more relieved to hear another sound ever again: for the time being, whoever had entered Shacklebolt's office for this brief interruption had saved her skin.

"Sorry to barge in, Dr. Shacklebolt," the person said, and Granger gave yet another start: she'd know Weasley's voice anywhere. She spun in her seat and saw his lanky figure standing in the doorframe, holding a sheet of paper a bit awkwardly in one hand. She could've kissed him: she was always happy to see him (there was no use denying that fact now), but especially now that he'd bought her a few more minutes. Weasley caught her eye and gave her a small, inconspicuous wink before redirecting his attention to Shacklebolt.

"Not at all, Mr. Weasley, please do come in," Shacklebolt bid him, and Weasley closed the door behind him.

"Coach Hooch said you'd want a copy of this," Weasley handed him the sheet of paper, and Shacklebolt began reading it over. "It's the inscription voucher for the eliminatory round of the university football tournament this year, for the financial records office, considering it's a sure thing we're moving on now. I would've normally just dropped these off with your secretary, but she seemed to be out on your lunch break, and I didn't wanna misplace it..."

"I don't mind at all, Mr. Weasley," Shacklebolt said, folding the paper neatly in two and depositing it in his desk's top drawer. "I was just talking with Dr. Granger here about her project for the University— you're a part of that, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," beamed Weasley with such pride that Granger was thankful to him, for Weasley's reaction could only add to her project's good standings.

"Then I can confidently ask you, as a participant in the research, whether you feel the approaches could be a little more... creative?"

"Creative?" Weasley said, and Granger groaned internally: it had taken almost no time for them to get back to where they'd started. But Weasley's tone wasn't confused, it was... confident? " _Ohhh_ , I see," Weasley said, clicking his tongue cheekily once. Granger was confused: _what was he doing?_ "I think the reason you don't know about this is she wanted to keep it secret from you until she had the results— you'll forgive me, won't you, Hermione, if I ruin the surprise before it was due?" he intoned, suddenly looking at her so intensely that Granger had little to do but stare back.

 _I have no idea what you're doing_ , she thought, alarm bells flaring red in her brain, _but I'm gonna take the risk and trust you with it_. "I don't mind," she smiled sweetly, against her better judgment, hating how it felt to be a participant in something so clearly beyond her control.

"It's a shame, I think it would've been better if we'd saved it as originally planned. But Dr. Granger wanted to do something about music and language, so we're all going down to Remembrall Records next week to pick a record we feel represents our _voice_ —y'know, 'cause 'the Voice of the University' and all that—, and then we're going to play them for her and have her draw any connections."

Granger was stunned: had he really just come up with that on the fly? All she could do was nod in the same molassy manner, keep the smile pressed firmly on her lips for Shacklebolt— would he have liked it? Or was he going to think it was stupid and then she'd be in a lot more trouble? Had Weasley saved her, or sunken her further?

To her surprise, Shacklebolt looked delighted: he clapped his hands and spoke out in an enthused bellow, "I love it! This is exactly what I meant! And you were keeping it from me, Dr. Granger?"

Still dumbfounded, Granger gave a funny little shrug and an uncertain smile, which Shacklebolt took as affirmation. "So this is why you froze on me when I asked you whether you had anything like this planned!"

Granger nodded a bit more agilely this time: better to let him believe that than to let him on the fact that it had been because she'd had no idea what to say.

"Well, I'm sorry Mr. Weasley here had to step in and throw the surprise," said Shacklebolt, standing up to give a sheepish Weasley a fraternal clap on the back. "That's all I had to say, Dr. Granger, so you both are free to go— I expect you still have some planning to do before the big record fest," he said, and began courteously ushering both she and Weasley outside of his office. "And I'll make sure not to pressure you so much next time you've got a surprise!" was his farewell to them, before he ceremoniously closed the door behind them.

"Does he always shoo people outside of his office?" Weasley asked amusedly.

Granger was still somewhat stunned, at least too much to answer anything. Instead, she turned to Weasley and, with a huge breath of relief, threw her arms around him: "I really can't thank you enough, Ronald. You really saved me in there."

A bit surprised, Weasley paused for a second before he let his arms fall gently around Granger too, reveling in the fleeting hug before she stepped back. "Least I could do," he said. "Your face told me you needed it."

"Did I really look _that_ mortified?" Granger asked with a hint of embarrassment, which Weasley thought looked adorable on her.

"Let's just thank the heavens he chalked it up to not wanting to give away the surprise," said Weasley, gesturing chivalrously down the hallway toward the exit.

Granger heeded his gesture and began walking out, with Weasley soon right at her side. "But really, thank you. I have a hard time being original on the spot, much less original _and_ out-of-the-box," she said earnestly.

"Least I could do," said Weasley, reaching out to give her shoulders a little squeeze just as they exited. "Now we've got to plan it."

"D'you think most people will be free on Friday?"

"Granger, we're grad students: none of us have _anything_ better to do on a Friday than loiter around a record store for a publicity project."

"Alright then, no need to put us all to shame in the process," said Granger, poking at his arm gently, as if jokingly scolding him. "So I'll send an email as soon as I manage to sit down?"

"Brilliant. And I'll text our group chat, just to make sure everyone gets it. Neville's email sometimes gains self-determination and begins labeling emails as 'spam' when they aren't, and I'm not sure Luna uses many methods of communication that aren't her phone or carrier pigeons."

Granger laughed: "Perfect, then. And I'll make sure Tonks is expecting us too."

"Good idea. The surprise of seeing us all in pilgrimage to her shop might make her so happy that she'll keel over in cardiac arrest if she doesn't get advance warning. So Friday at... four thirty, then?"

"It's a date," Granger said quickly, before she and Weasley both froze for a second at her choice of words. Diffusing the awkwardness, she steered the subject elsewhere: "How can I thank you? Really, anything— you name it."

Weasley exaggeratedly brought a hand up to his chin, as if deep in thought. "Hermione Granger owes me a favor, and she thinks I won't give it some thought before I answer? This is both the debt _and_ the opportunity of a lifetime, after all."

"Oh, come off it," said Granger. "What can I do?"

"Well, I'm still gonna _think_ about it, but I'll tell you what: I'll have a definite answer by Friday, when we're done with the records."

"You're going to keep me hanging until then?"

"Well, of course! I have to decide well what I'm going to ask you for. To hide McLaggen's samples from him, or to cook me dinner, or to wear fishnets for our next group meeting— ooh, or tell you what, I might just cash in my favor just to see you streak at a football game!"

"Again with that," said Granger, flushing slightly at how suggestive Weasley's last two potential requests had been. "I'm not streaking for you, Weasley."

"Or _are_ you?" he said theatrically, and gave her a wink before walking off back toward the physics lab. "I suppose you'll find out Friday."

* * *

The instructions were clear and were well-understood since before they all congregated at Remembrall on that Friday afternoon: they had as long as they wanted to scout around the shop and pick out _one_ , and only one, record that they thought best resonated with who they were.

"It's kind of abstract, isn't it?" Neville had said timorously when Granger had caught him on Hogsmeade Lane to ask him if he'd gotten her email (after Weasley's tale with the spam label, she wasn't taking any risks).

Luna's reaction had been the exact opposite: she'd clasped her hands with a dazed hopefulness in her eyes, and her usually-soft voice had raised with quivering excitement when she'd told Granger, "I didn't think we'd get to do something like this!"

There were only seven of them, counting Granger, in the shop: Zabini had declined the offer, and Dean and Seamus hadn't been able to make it because Dean had a massive portfolio deadline due before the weekend expired, which Seamus was elemental in digitalizing. And, of course, Granger hadn't even bothered pushing with Parvati and Lavender: it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.

Weasley had been right about Tonks, too: despite Granger swinging by on Wednesday to let her know, she seemed positively catatonic when she saw them all stream through the shop's little door, almost falling off the ladder she was clinging to as she restocked some of the higher shelves.

"Wotcher, all of you!" she called out from the heights, as pink in the face as her hair with the excitement of their arrival. Those who knew her —Ginny, Harry, Weasley, and Granger— waved wildly back, whereas Neville and Luna merely gave her a shy nod, and Draco (who Granger had been surprised had agreed to come) didn't even bother with a gesture.

"Okay, everyone," Granger said when they all gathered in an empty spot near the cash register of the shop, by its entrance. "You know the rules. One record, and one only, and then we'll play it in one of Tonks's auditory rooms in the back of the store. You have as long as you need to, but you're not allowed to consult with any of the others on which record you should choose or which record they feel best fits you— it has to come wholly and directly from you. Understood?" she was met with a sea of heads bobbing with eager nods— except, again, for the sleeked-back blond one. "Alright then, off you go!" Granger bid them, clapping her hands once as in the gunshot marking the start of a race, and the crowd dispersed excitedly around Remembrall Records, fingering through each shelf to try to find something they liked.

Only Draco stayed rooted in his spot, looking uncomfortably around the shop, evidently feeling out of place. Granger, recalling all those weeks ago when Ginny had first brought her here and she'd felt smidgens of the same discomfort, approached him and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

"I'm fine," said Draco, making no attempt to brush off her hand.

"So what's up?"

"I don't know why I came," sighed Draco, his eyes following Harry as he darted around the shelves. "All I can do is feel self-conscious about Potter, even if there's nothing left between us, and I'm not exactly one for hanging around indie record shops, as you might be able to tell."

"I know how you're feeling," said Granger, and truly meant it. "It's how I felt a month or so ago, after that first group session we all had, and Ginny brought me here and I felt like a fish out of water. But give them some credit, Draco: I learned it too, thanks to them, but no one's out to get you, and they'll be quite happy to have you if they give you a chance."

"I'm not you, Granger, I've got history with these people," Draco said, but he was smiling faintly.

Granger picked up on his smile and rubbed his shoulder gently with her palm: "Besides, there's something about this shop that makes you feel at home, in a way."

"Oh, don't you worry about that, it's a literal taste of home for me," Draco smirked, his tone a lot more flippant. "Nymphadora's my cousin." With his smirk only growing, he shrugged Granger's hand off his shoulder gently to go wander around the shop.

A bit stunned at how casually he'd dropped that bombshell, Granger remained still for a couple of seconds, then shook her head bemusedly and looked to Draco, who was now ambling about and examining the shelves, with a smile.

"Know Draco, huh?" came a cheery voice from behind, and Granger turned to find a beaming Tonks standing with her hands posed on her hips. "Baby cousin."

"He told me," smiled Granger.

"Our mothers are sisters," Tonks explained, with the same nonchalant shrug Granger now recognized from Draco's demeanor. "Bet you didn't expect that. No one does, really, but trust me, it's my mom that's the weird one in that family," she winked.

"What do you think about this?" Granger asked, gesturing vaguely toward her friends dashing between the shelves.

"I think it's the coolest thing that's happened in this shop since someone sent us a Stones-signed guitar anonymously," said Tonks nonchalantly, but her eyes did indeed glint with admiration. "Say, Hermione, you wouldn't happen to take _me_ into your study for this, right? Just so I get to pick a record?"

"Database is set in stone," laughed Granger, "so as much as I trust your music taste to be impeccable, I'm afraid we'll have to save it for next time."

"Aww, shucks," pouted Tonks, her bright pink hair bobbing as she dipped her chin a bit. "Well, I suppose it was too good to happen. Can I get you a drink instead? On the house."

"You spoil me," smiled Granger, already following her toward the coffeehouse portion of the shop.

"Oh, don't think so for a second," Tonks said, hopping over the drinks bar and switching on the coffee machine. "I'm just grooming you to make sure you come back with another cool music study just for me."

"Deal," Granger chuckled, sitting down at one of the worn wooden stools lining the front of the bar.

"I'll hold you to it," Tonks said with another wink, and then turned back to froth milk for a mystery drink Granger couldn't wait to try.

* * *

About an hour and a half later, once Granger had downed the last of a deep red, creamy drink Tonks had dubbed a 'cherry late' and licked off the last of a frothy 'mustache' that had lingered on her upper lip (Tonks's milk frother did not disappoint), the rest of the group gathered at the bar, where Granger and Tonks had been holding a pleasant conversation peppered with more laughter than Granger remembered for a while.

"I think they're done," Tonks said, jabbing the rag she was using to clean the coffeemaker at the expectant group. "I'll leave you to it," she said with another of her characteristic winks, and turned to resume her cleaning.

"How'd it go?" asked Granger, and none of them needed to say anything past their smiles for her to discern the answer. "Alright, then," she said as she hopped off the stool, "let's do what we're here to do: go to the back and play these."

"Hate to barge in," chimed in Tonks again, "but you can use the main record player. I've told the patrons today Remembrall is participating in a research study, so to expect some disturbances in the regularly scheduled soundtrack. Makes for a much better atmosphere," she finished with a grin, and turned —again— back to the behind-the-bar gadgets.

"Don't be fooled, Hermione, she's just being this nice because she wants you to owe her a favor," Ginny said with a wag of her finger, but her face displayed an unmistakable excitement: she'd been begging Tonks for a turn on the store player for years, and she couldn't believe she was finally getting the chance.

"It's settled, then," said Granger, and they headed over to the center of the store, where both the register and the store player were zealously guarded by a square desk that faced in all directions of the store. Much like Tonks had done over the bar, they skidded across it with a swing of their legs to the other side, and remained seated on the ledges except for Granger, who took the sole chair in the station and settled by the record player. "So who's first?"

"Oh, me!" Luna piped up, handing Granger a deep violet album with mustard lettering.

" _ZABA_ , Glass Animals," Granger read off the cover, and then lowered an iridescent emerald-and-amethyst record onto the player, placing the needle at the indent that signaled the place where the first song started. The record spun and out of the store's speakers a slow, dazy sound began to ooze, punctuated by the coppery sound of something clanking in the background. The melody was interlaced with bubbling, almost animal sounds, and with the steady drumming of a tribal beat as the song climbed further. It was, Granger thought, immensely fitting for Luna: dreamy, with a sort of wandering quality, and utterly, unquestionably _odd_. Even though her stoic sobriety prevented it from experientially knowing, Granger thought this was what being high must feel like. The song ended in a whisper and a sigh as of a tide washing out, and Granger lifted the needle.

"We're not listening to the whole records?" Luna asked, the only one whose expression hadn't gone through at least a few stages of auditory confusion, swinging her legs childishly along the ledge.

"No, we'd be here for hours, but I'm saving them to listen to them on my own later and jot down some more... thoughts," Granger said, struggling to find any other way to describe the musical experience Luna's pick had put her ears through. She hadn't yet decided whether she'd liked it or not, but one thing was clear: it perfectly encapsulated Luna in a way that the other's choices would have a hard time topping. "Who's next?" she said, placing _ZABA_ carefully on the table to start the pile of records she would take home later.

"Me!" shouted Neville, clumsily handing her an almost-black, navy blue album with big, bronze-colored letters across its front.

It seemed that Granger was the only one who didn't immediately recognize it: everyone else in the group, Draco included, let out a massive groan. " _ABBA Gold_ , Neville, really?" Weasley chided him.

"I'm an ABBA man, through and through," Neville said, crossing his arms defiantly and hiking his chin upward. "And don't you all try to play the musical snobs on me. I _know_ you all lose it when they play 'Dancing Queen' at a party. And you especially, Ron— didn't you treat us to a karaoke rendition of 'Super Trouper' at Katie Bell's last mixer?"

"If I was drunk enough to kiss Lavender, I sure as hell was drunk enough to not remember something like that," Weasley retorted, but the quick reddening of the tips of his ears suggested otherwise.

"Whatever you say," said Neville smugly, Weasley's ears having not escaped his notice.

"Okay, let me play this, since I seem to be the only one that doesn't know it," Granger said, setting the appropriately-golden record down on the player.

Though it had been Weasley to poke fun at Neville, now it was him that also whipped around to look at Granger with a ridiculous amount of shock stamped across his face: "What do you mean you don't know ABBA? Everybody and their mother knows ABBA!"

" _Our_ mother especially," muttered Ginny to Harry in the corner.

"Well, I don't," shrugged Granger.

"That's it," said Weasley, sliding off the ledge to march up to the record player. "You have to listen _now_." And he was the one that lowered the needle and set the record spinning, automatically breaking out into a jump and a dance when the well-known piano riff trickled through the speakers.

"'Dancing Queen'!" hollered Neville, who'd begun to move to the music too. It seemed like everyone had been unable to keep themselves from dancing: even Draco's shoulders were involuntarily shimmying, as he tried to play down the fact that he was mouthing the song lyrics with the same fervor as the rest of them were screaming them with.

"Keep the racket down, or Tonks will flip out!" Granger said, even through the laughter it brought her to see the others having this much fun, but she knew it was to no avail: even behind the coffeeshop bar, she could see Tonks had stopped cleaning and was giving a dramatic performance where the same dirty rag served as a sort of microphone.

Soon, everybody was prancing around the store, yelling out the lyrics and only vaguely staying in tune. "Join in, Granger!" Weasley shouted when he got near enough to her to grab ahold of her wrists and jig them to the music. "Don't be such a stickler, everybody loves ABBA!"

Begrudgingly, she let herself be convinced, letting Weasley shake her around in a poor excuse for a partner dance, because he was jumping around excitedly and kept hollering the lyrics at the same loud volume. Granger looked at how much fun he was having, his eyes scrunched tight and his expression that of a man who was having the fun of a lifetime, and found herself smiling widely— she liked seeing him happy, she decided, and if pathetic little dances were what it took to make him look like that, so be it. And happy was exactly the right way to describe this music: just like Neville, it was boisterous, it was poppy, it was a jump and a good time.

Finally, the song ended, and everyone returned to their seats on the station ledge a little breathless and red in the face, but looking utterly satisfied. "If you want to listen to the rest of the album," Neville offered, "be my guest."

"No one else will oppose ABBA," Ginny nodded her assent. "Don't care if no one else gets a turn."

"We have to keep going, as tempting as that is," said Granger, taking the record off and putting it back into its sleeve before setting it on top of _ZABA._ "Next?"

Wordlessly, Draco offered a black album bearing the image of two slim legs stretched on top of a row of theatre seats.

"The Marías?" asked Granger, reading the loopy scrawl crowning the sleeve.

" _Superclean, Vols. 1 & 2,_" Draco gave the album title, and beckoned to Granger for her to set the red record on the player. A suave, gentle sound very unlike the last dance hit came through the speakers, with a soft, scaling guitar riffing harmoniously, a few bass notes twanging in the background, and a pattering drumline keeping rhythm.

"I didn't know you'd be into something like this," commented Harry, surprising both Draco and Granger with his direct address to Draco. "I thought you'd still be into all those darker bands."

"I outgrew my emo phase, Potter, along with many other qualities, as soon as I exited secondary school," drawled Draco. Was he— joking? With Harry? Both of their sly smiles seemed to suggest it. Something akin to resolution passed between them.

The song was perfect for them to stay in silence, catching a breath from the previous exertion, only the singer's breathy whisper of a voice enunciating any soft words between them. When the song ended with the silent finality of one last guitar chord, Granger took the album off the player and set it with the rest.

"Good album, Draco," Ginny said in a friendly tone as well. "Very smooth."

"Sleek, isn't it?" Draco smiled at her, and Granger jotted that down mentally: it had indeed been a sleek experience, smooth and soft, much like Draco's eerily calm demeanor and noble poise tended to hint at.

"Kinda sounds like mine, actually," said Ginny, handing Granger a cream-colored record with two monochrome figures posing on its front. "Wouldn't be surprised if it'd been an influence for them. You'd know it more from the second song on here, really, but Hermione's gonna play the first, so you'll have to take my word for it." She turned to Granger now, to introduce her pick: " _Rumours_ , Fleetwood Mac. It's a classic."

Granger set the pastel-patterned record on the player and listened as a folkish, upbeat melody laden with a punctual guitar was ground out of the speakers. A high-pitched man's voice called out a few long notes clearly, every so often joined in the background by a sticky woman's voice. "That's Stevie Nicks," Ginny pointed out the first time her voice buoyed above the instruments. "If I could be anyone else but me, I'd be her."

"I'm surprised too, Ginevra," it was Draco's turn now to opine. "I thought you'd play us something by some punk all-girls band."

"Oh, I like those too, don't get me wrong," Ginny smiled kindly at him, "but Fleetwood Mac is Fleetwood Mac."

 _And that it was_ , thought Granger, sensing a lesser-known side of Ginny emanating from the music. It was the calmer, less extroverted side, the Ginny who made her friends feel at home and who offered those pearly smiles that made you feel as if a present had been given to you. Combat-boot Ginny, of course, was absolutely charming, but to have her present the softer side embodied by her album pick as her 'truer self' was immensely endearing.

The song, a short one, ended quickly, and Granger delicately took it off the player to set it eagerly with the rest of the pile: she was eager to get to know this side of Ginny more deeply, and this album would be a wonderful key into that.

"My turn?" Harry offered, handing Granger a minimalist, retro-red vinyl jacket containing a jet-black disc, the letters 'RCA' emblazoned in cream across its top left corner.

"Great pick," Ginny nodded approvingly at her boyfriend. "You can never go wrong with The Strokes."

 _Comedown Machine_ , read the small print underneath the band name Ginny had provided, and Granger remarked on how nicely simplistic the album cover was before lowering the record onto the player.

She thought the record might be scratched at first: a few dissonant squeaks whirred out of the speakers as the segue into the song before a pleasant, warm guitar and its complementary drums dispersed her worries. The singer's voice was soft and did not overwhelm the instruments, leaving them to 'speak' for themselves. Though the drums remained constant, the song's general feel switched a few times: the somber, steady pace of the verses transitioned to the more automatic, more intense prechorus and then dissolved into a cheerful, swaying chorus. Though she had yet to listen to the rest, Granger could tell that this was an album that offered considerable nuance, which she could immediately tie back to Harry. The subdued voice was also something she could relate to him: though Harry was often thrust to the front, he much preferred to let his words linger back behind his actions, to attract as little attention as possible to all the things that he couldn't help instead of those he'd directly created.

"Nice pick, mate," Weasley echoed his sister when Granger took the record off. She looked back up to be met with a picaresque grin on Weasley's lips, as he held forth a grey, crowded album with a purple tinge to it. "Saved best for last, didn't we, Granger?"

"Spare your ego, please," she told him, receiving the sleeve and giving it a look-over. "And what's this?"

"Another standard of British excellence," Weasley declared proudly, "that isn't exactly Edgar Purses, or whatever his name was."

"It's _El-gar_ and _Pur-cell_ , and they're not even from the same time period, let alone the same person—"

"Whatever you say, Granger, this is Oasis," Weasley dismissed her protests, and beckoned again toward the album in her hands. " _(What's the Story),_ _Morning Glory?_ Also known as the album any up-and-coming guitar player invariably becomes obsessed with."

"Don't tell me you're one of those 'anyway, here's Wonderwall' types," groaned Neville, leaning back a bit in his seat. "I've had to stop going to some coffeehouses because they haul in a new one every week."

"You think so lowly of me, Neville?" Weasley said with mock offense as Granger set the record down. "I'll have you know I've never once played 'Wonderwall'. I'm more of a 'She's Electric' type of chap."

"Guess I'll know what both of those are when I listen to it whole," said Granger as she placed the needle carefully, "but we'll need to get through the first song."

"You're unbelievable," Weasley shook his head as a rough guitar shredded through the speakers, with a vaguely electric undercurrent threaded through. "ABBA I can excuse, but Oasis? When you're British? Unbelievable."

"Don't chastise me, you musical nationalist," Granger quipped back. "You've never even heard of Elgar."

"And why should I?" Weasley challenged her with that same roguish smile. "If I'm to be a musical nationalist, I'll be a cool one about it."

As she listened, Granger could tell exactly why Weasley had made this pick: it was a rough, unbridled sound, expressing the same wild stomp-your-feet quality that she'd firsthand experienced when they'd been in one of Tonks's back rooms, with a serious rebelliousness to it, and yet it was a song that just seemed to have fun by itself. It was messy, it was unkempt, and yet it seemed to come together in a way that it wouldn't be hard to love: it was Weasley, thrown into a few bars and scales. And as the song trailed off, and Granger put the black vinyl back into its sleeve, she couldn't help but think she might even be more excited for this one than she was for Ginny's, no matter how uncharacteristically (for her) unquiet this one seemed to be.

"That's it for today!" she said as she turned back to the group. "I hope you all had fun." Even Draco nodded his assent, a sight that filled Granger's heart. "I'll give the rest of these a listen periodically from here to the end of term, and I'll make some notes."

"When do we get to see the results?" Neville asked eagerly.

"It's not exactly an _examination_ , Neville, but I think I'm gonna keep it a surprise," she said, shooting Weasley a knowing glance. He smirked back: it might be nice to at least make _one_ part of this make-up project the surprise they had invented it to be. "You'll see it when it's out."

"I can't wait," said Luna, her eyes sparkling. "Daddy always says music is a much better language than spoken word. He says the first caveman learned to bang a stick against a rock before he learned how to say the first vowel."

"He wasn't trying to make fire at all, surely, he was putting on a concert," Weasley muttered so only Granger could hear it, and she snorted briefly with a stifled laugh.

The group bid each other farewell and filed out of the shop, conversing amicably as they continued about their Friday. Only Granger stayed behind, collecting the records to cradle them against her chest and place them in the cabinet Tonks had told her she could keep them in to set them aside whenever she came to the store to listen. As she locked up the small cabinet, she felt something warm press against her from the back, and she straightened suddenly with the start of its touch.

"It's just me," chuckled Weasley, and Granger relaxed. She turned to him, finding him still close enough to her body that she could feel the warmth emanating from his chest and catch a whiff of his scent, a clean-cut cinnamon-y scent that prickled at her nostrils. "So? Went well?"

"Went well," Granger said, leaning against the ledge Weasley had unwittingly pressed her against. "I was just glad to see everyone else have fun, mostly. I suppose I'll have to listen to these in more detail to make my annotations."

"I expect you will," said Weasley with another soft laugh, and shifted imperceptibly closer. "And now, aren't you dying to hear?"

"Hear what?"

"What you can do in return for me, of course." Weasley said, leaning even closer. God, how this proximity killed her— when he was near enough to touch, when he kept coming closer just to tease her, so slightly that she even wondered whether he was any closer at all. "I said I'd deliver the verdict today, when we were all done."

"Let's hear it," said Granger, feeling her stomach twist at his mischievous expression. Oh, God, what was she going to have to do? Sabotage McLaggen at the lab? Wear something skimpy and ridiculous? Was she going to — _oh, God—_ was she going to have to streak?

But Weasley's mischief evaporated, and when he spoke, he did it with an earnest warmth: "Just come to my next football game, will you? That's enough for me?"

Granger heaved a sigh of relief, unable to dissimulate it, which seemed to amuse Weasley. "That's it?"

"That's it," Weasley said quietly, reaching for her hand. She was getting use to these soft, personal holds, and she quite liked them. She took no time to grasp his hand warmly in hers. "Think you can do that?"

She gave his hand a small squeeze, like she always seemed to do during these holds, and looked up at him with a smile. "I'd do it even if you hadn't asked."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we get to the end! I know, again, this was a slightly inconsequential chapter, but I've been practicing my character studies on the side and I've found that thinking about what kind of music your characters might listen to is a great exercise in developing their tastes and personality. I wanted to do something similar here. :)
> 
> As promised...
> 
> TL;DR: Shacklebolt disarms Granger with a request for something "fresher", "more original," so Weasley —ever the knight in shining armor— steps in to suggest that they all go down to Remembrall Records and pick an album they feel best embodies their "voice", passing it off as Granger's idea in the first place. Shacklebolt loves it, and Granger asks Weasley what she can do to repay him for the favor; Weasley says he'll let her know on Friday, when the record activity is over. Come Friday, they all gather at Remembrall and play the first song off the record each one chooses. After that, Weasley stays behind and cashes in his favor: all he wants is for Granger to come see him at his next football game.


	31. Chapter 31

When Granger had agreed to watch Weasley's next football game, she thought it would be just like last time. She didn't think it'd be an _away game_. She didn't think she'd have to leave campus for the afternoon. And she definitely, definitely didn't think that she'd have to pack into a cramped shuttle with at least half of the men's football team to get there.

Compared to _this_ , that last brouhaha Ginny had taken her to against the Durmstrang boys seemed like a calm afternoon.

"Where are we going?" she had asked as soon as they'd remounted Hogsmeade Lane toward the street by the athletics headquarters, in the other direction from the football field. He'd come to pick her up at her office, and she, assuming they'd head straight down to the pitch for the game, had thought it odd that he wasn't yet in his shorts and jersey, but had discarded it: she didn't know enough about football to be familiar with the players' habits, after all. But it had seemed peculiar even to her, now, that they were going in the opposite direction from where she now knew the pitch to be.

"You've cleared your whole afternoon, right?" Weasley had said as way of answer, leaving Granger's query pending.

"Yes, but I don't see why it's important that I should've. It's just a couple of hours or so, right?"

"Yes... if it's on campus," Weasley had grinned, and that's when Granger had spotted the two enormous shuttles looming at the end of the street, and the gaggle of football players around them, stocking them both with training gear under Coach Hooch's watchful eye.

 _Oh no,_ Granger thought, and turned to Weasley with a panicked look. "Weasley, I have to warn you, I am way out of my depth here."

"Don't tell me you're going to bail on me?" Weasley said, lightly grabbing her arm for good measure in case she decided to make a run for it. "You do owe me, after all."

"Yes, I know, but this..." Granger gestured vaguely at the commotion around them, and the sentence didn't need an end to make it clear to Weasley this was more than she'd bargained for.

"How do you know you're not going to love it?" he said in a more reassuring tone, seizing her other arm to turn her to face him. "You were just as reluctant to go with Ginny to the other one, and you liked it, didn't you? How do you know if this isn't 'your depth', as you call it, if you don't try it?"

He was right, she knew that, and she hated it— she may be more intelligent than practically anyone, but she was obstinate when it came to leaving her comfort zone. "Okay," she said softly, giving in and dropping her arms by her sides. "But if I hate it, this is the last time I'm coming to one of these."

"Deal," beamed Weasley, elated at having gotten through to her. "Now c'mon, they look to have almost finished loading up the shuttles, but I oughta go over and see if Coach Hooch needs any help." With that, he skipped off toward Hooch, yelling something about whether his gloves were in there somewhere— and left Granger on her own.

She looked around awkwardly, feeling more than ever like she was awfully out of place, before she caught a glimpse of a familiar red ponytail and scuttled over to Ginny with immense relief.

"Oh, hi, Hermione! I wasn't sure if you were coming!" Ginny said brightly when Granger reached her. She was with a short, slender, sparrow-like girl with her chestnut hair in two tight plaits, and another girl with a broad forehead and deep olive skin whom Granger recognized as Ginny's roommate, Demelza. All three of them were wearing University football jerseys and jeans. "Hermione, these are some of my teammates, they're coming to watch the boys too. Katie, Demelza, you know Hermione."

"Hi!" Katie said in a cheerful tinkle, extending a small and eager hand out for Granger to shake. So this must be Katie Bell, Granger thought as she shook her hand, recalling everything she'd heard about her. She'd normally have a hard time believing such a doll-like, tiny person could be the life and soul of those gigantic ragers she kept hearing about, but the spark in Katie's eyes told her otherwise.

Demelza merely gave Granger a friendly wave, having come across each other beforehand thanks to Ginny.

"We're just talking about the boys' prospects for today," Ginny explained, placing a hand on Granger's shoulder to bring her more easily into the conversation.

At this, Demelza seemed to light up: "I think we're in good shape, even if they slacked off a little bit near the end of that match with Durmstrang. Plus, Ilvermorny is not a strong team, I'm surprised they even made it to quarterfinals, so..."

Katie nodded her assent and piped in: "Especially after they hired that American coach. Goodness me, what were they thinking?, those Americans have never been particularly stellar at football."

"Soccer, they call it," blurted Granger almost involuntarily— part of what had fascinated her about linguistics were the different words different cultures used to refer to the same thing, and she thought this particular case was especially funny, considering _what_ she knew football to mean to the Americans.

"Ridiculous," snorted Katie, and Demelza concurred. " _Their_ 'football' involves almost no foot-to-ball contact! It's in the name!"

But their dissertation about the ludicrous discordances between Americans and Britons was interrupted when a tall, hunkish man with straw-colored hair leaned against the shuttle and inserted himself in their conversation: "Alright, ladies?"

"Go away, Cormac," Demelza said in exasperation, with Katie and Ginny rolling their eyes to signal how strongly they shared that sentiment.

McLaggen, of course, paid no attention, and instead focused on Granger: "You, here? I never took you for much of a football fan. I would've invited you to my games before, if I knew that's what it'd take— tell me, Granger, is that how Weasley did it?"

"Okay, that's enough," Ginny cut in before Granger had a chance to retort, pulling McLaggen off the van and shoving him away from them. "You've got an awful lot of balls for someone who's here as a substitute."

"Not if I can manage it," grumbled McLaggen, giving Granger one last lewd look before he went off to join Zacharias Smith and Roger Davies by the other shuttle.

"Arrogant prick," Ginny muttered, dusting off her hands as if pushing him away had dirtied them. "He thinks he's hot shit just because he can bench press 130."

"Why is he here, anyway?" asked Granger, who had not expected _him_ to be a factor in her afternoon.

"Athletics policy. If it's an away game, we have to take a substitute for goalkeeper, just to be sure. I hope Ron doesn't get injured or get nervous today, so Cormac has to keep his arse on the bench the whole time."

As if summoned, Weasley ambled over to them, giving Demelza and Katie friendly nods as he went. "Well, Coach Hooch says we're ready to go. Asked me to tell you to please get into a shuttle so we won't be late."

"Aye aye," Katie and Demelza gave him jokey salutes, and walked off together to take a place at a shuttle. Ginny spotted Harry waving from a few feet away, so she walked off to join him, leaving Granger and her brother alone.

"I see you've dressed the part," Weasley told Granger with a smile. She looked down at her black jeans and mustard-colored blouse, still more in-place at a business casual interview than on a football pitch, but the best she could do to sport the University colors. Besides, she'd attempted to get rid of some of the formality by going with a top rather than a bra— Weasley didn't have to _know_ , of course, but it sure meant something to her.

"Still a bit too stiffy, I'm sure," she said, taking pleasure in his compliment.

"Well, but at least you've tried," Weasley said, brushing her over with his own eyes again, as if he hadn't done so at least a million times since he'd picked her up, as if he didn't do it every time he had a chance to lay eyes on her. "Still, I will refuse to die until I've seen Hermione Granger in a tee-shirt."

"In your dreams," she laughed, and adjusted the collar of her blouse.

"You jest, but that's what you said about us dating when Neville ran into you all those weeks ago, and look how that went for you."

 _More of a nightmare than a dream thus far_ , Granger thought even as she blushed, recalling Lavender and all the unnecessary unpleasantness she and Weasley had put each other through. Still, she thought, she was happy she'd been wrong on that count.

"We should 'please get into a shuttle," was all she answered, mimicking him, "so we won't be late'."

"Right this way," he gestured with exaggerated chivalry, and they beelined toward the shuttle they'd seen Ginny and Harry disappear into.

However, when they got close enough, a boastful voice reached Granger's ears through the shuttle windows, coming from inside: "Yes, really, I turned it down, I'm not starting goalkeeper because I told Coach Hooch I would much rather focus on my studies, though she was very disappointed..."

Responding immediately, Granger grabbed Weasley's hand and spun on her heels, dragging him to the other shuttle. "Nope, nope, nope, I am _not_ getting into a crammed shuttle with McLaggen."

"A wise choice," murmured Weasley as they climbed the steps to get into the other shuttle, where they were greeted by Katie, Demelza, Oliver Wood, Montague, Peakes, Sloper, and Kirke.

As they took two joint seats near the back of the vehicle, the engine rumbled under them, and the wheels began spinning to head outside the University's front gates. Granger looked out the window, watching the familiar campus roll slowly by, unaware that Weasley was looking not through her but at her with a hint of a smile.

"I feel bad now," she confessed, and looked to Weasley abruptly, forcing him to dissimulate that _no_ , he hadn't just been staring at her. "We left Ginny and Harry all on their own in there with McLaggen."

"Oh, don't feel too bad. Ginny and Harry can hold up against him just fine. You should see Harry sass him out each year at tryouts when he gets too cocky, or that one time Ginny absolutely lost it on him for coming down to the women's tryouts to whistle at them. It was glorious."

The image of Ginny screaming at a dumbfounded McLaggen and his cronies for being creeps was, indeed, _glorious_ , and Granger allowed the smile it provoked to dissipate her guilt at having left her friends to his mercy. If anything, he was the one that should be looking out.

"Snacks?" came Weasley's voice again, and Granger looked at him to find him clutching a snack pack of peanuts. "I have more," he offered, laying out on the seat between them a pack of colorful licorice, a pack of Jelly Babies, and two bags of crisps.

"You eat all this before a game?" Granger asked, nonetheless happily taking up the bag of licorice to carefully tear it open. "How can you even run?"

"That's the goalie's secret," Weasley said, tilting his head back to coax the remaining peanuts out from the bottom of the bag. "You _don't_ run. You stay in your goal and you spring into action if someone comes sprinting at you with a ball. But otherwise, you can very well stuff yourself before."

"Fuel, I'll suppose you'll call it."

"That's another way to put it," said Weasley, crinkling the empty peanut packet and stuffing it into his duffel bag. He pulled out an old brick of a phone and some earbuds, plugged them into the phone, and placed the right earbud in. "Music?" he asked as he offered Granger the other earbud.

Granger graciously took it and put it in her left ear as well, and Weasley, looking pleased, tapped at his phone until a rough, guitar-laden song began blaring through them, a song Granger didn't recognize but definitely knew Weasley would love.

"You know, I never thought—" she started.

"What?" said Weasley loudly, lowering the earbuds' outrageous volume a bit.

"I _said_ , I never thought I'd be glad to spend an afternoon in a dingy old shuttle headed toward another university, sharing crisps and music with a physicist who's into sports."

"And are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Glad?"

Granger took in her surroundings: the van smelled like sweat, the music was a bit too loud and disorderly for her taste, and her fingers were already mildly coated in grease from Weasley's food. This was the antithesis of everything she thought she'd like.

"Yes," she said through an earnest grin. "Yes, I'm very glad."

* * *

Ten minutes into the game, Granger saw why the Ilvermorny coach had been worthy of notice: a tall, beefy man with a rosy face and a bellowing voice, his cheers, shouts, and funny little dances whenever one of his players in burgundy-and-blue did anything well would've been enough to attract attention without the added novelty of his being American. He yelled at his players on the field in the same manner as one would if watching a match on TV, with exhilarated excitement but without providing much direction.

And Demelza had been right: Ilvermorny College wasn't a particularly strong contender, and it was hard to envision them making it past the quarterfinal round, especially not at the University's expense. Roger Davies had scored a spectacular goal within the first three minutes, and their thin goalie now looked even meeker and more frightened than he had before the referee had blown the whistle (Granger had thought he was seconds away from fainting). And the University midfield, led by Harry, had done a spectacular job of keeping any Ilvermorny offensives at bay: in almost twelve minutes now, Granger had seen the ball cross over onto the University's side of the pitch only once or twice.

The first time, Sloper had merely kicked it back with considerable ease, and the second, Weasley had executed a great, but not outstanding, save that had Granger rooting for him even more strongly. It wasn't just the fact that she was, after all, here to see him (and that to see him move still stirred her less-than-chaste thoughts)— but the better Weasley did, the less chance McLaggen would have to join the match.

But that hope was dashed as soon as, around the thirtieth minute, the University scored its _fourth_ goal, with Ilvermorny still clocking in at nil. Their coach was now graduating from a healthy flush to a full-on scarlet hue, and his yelling had gotten even more furious, if such a thing was even possible. The players, clearly desperate and increasingly frustrated (not even a change from the initial cowardly goalie had saved them from Flint sinking two more balls into the net), amped up the aggression in their playing. It all culminated when, as Weasley dove out further than the goal line to stop a ball in its tracks, an Ilvermorny player aimed poorly for a rebound and, with a swift kick, dug his cleat into Weasley's right wrist.

The referee blew the whistle with shrill urgency and soon Weasley was swarmed with black-and-gold-clad players. Granger had half a mind to get up there and see for herself, but Ginny stopped her with an arm across her chest.

"Not worth the try," she said, sensing Granger's intentions. "The referee will kick you out, and you'll only crowd him even further. They'll take care of him, don't worry."

 _Was_ she worried? She heard Weasley cry out in pain from where he was, and she felt an ache twist at her heart: yes, she supposed she _was_ worried. But could you blame her? She'd be worried about anyone whose wrist had just been swept with a kick like that, no matter whether it was or wasn't Weasley... Or would she have reacted differently if it'd been Harry? She supposed she wouldn't have been as worried... But then again, maybe she was worried about the score— with the goalie out, that sure placed the stakes higher, didn't it? But they led 4-0, they were absolutely obliterating Ilvermorny...

Her stream of thoughts, trying to excuse herself from recognizing that she _did_ care about Weasley after all, was interrupted with another whistle. Her attention returned to the pitch, where a couple of his teammates —Harry and Andrew Kirke, she knew from their last names across their jerseys' backs— were supporting Weasley off the field and to the bench, flanked by a wave of polite applause from the spectator side. But if Weasley wasn't playing, surely this could only mean—

Sure enough, there it was: McLaggen, finishing to strap on the pair of spare gloves Coach Hooch _had_ , after all, packed, was swaggering onto the pitch, in an arrogant catwalk stroll that had little place on a sports field.

Ginny, Demelza, and Katie all groaned audibly next to Granger. "Man, this is _not_ going to be easy on Ron," Ginny commented gloomily. "Normally I'd hope he tanks so Ron doesn't lose confidence, but now..."

"...we can't lose against _Ilvermorny,_ " Demelza completed her thought, and Ginny nodded solemnly.

This, indeed, was quite the dilemma: McLaggen was a person whose failure was easy to root for, but the University's continued passage through the football league rode, as of now, on his success. Seeing him stand below the net's frame and do a couple of ridiculous warm-up exercises that were really directed at displaying his physique to the Ilvermorny girls in the first row by the University's endline, Granger hoped to the heavens that Weasley wasn't _seriously_ hurt, and would be able to sub in shortly again.

This wish only grew in intensity as McLaggen's unmistakeable ego began showing. "Defend _me_!" he kept barking at Sloper and Kirke, who had gotten tired by the third time they'd explained to him that they were playing according to their positions and to Hooch's strategy. "Not the goalbox, _me_!"

"A bit of a prat, isn't he?" muttered Katie out of the corner of her mouth, loud enough so Granger could catch it. "I knew the guy thought highly of himself, but I'd never seen him in action..."

So consumed was McLaggen in berating Sloper and Kirke that he didn't notice when an Ilvermorny player snuck behind the line of defense (something Weasley always seemed to plan for, and be ready for) and cleanly kicked the ball into the middle of the net— an easy save if it weren't for the fact that McLaggen had not for an instant laid eyes on the ball.

The Ilvermorny spectators at last erupted into a cheer, and in the University bench, Oliver Wood (who had come along as assistant coach to Hooch) looked as if he'd just swallowed a lemon whole.

Harry, the captain, jogged on over from midfield and yelled something at McLaggen Granger couldn't make out over the dying cheers of the Ilvermorny fans, but which did not seem to be sitting well with McLaggen, judging by how red he was turning. "You trust your team!" was the final, sole thing Granger heard from Harry's lips before he stormed back to his midfield position, leaving McLaggen seething.

But Harry's scolding had seemed to have little effect: in the final second of the first half, McLaggen was already headed gloatingly back toward the bench, so that he didn't notice when the same Ilvermorny striker snuck behind him and landed another goal.

"4-2 is redeemable," Katie said uncertainly, sounding as if she was more trying to convince herself than the rest of the girls. "We can work with 4-2."

"I just can't believe it," Demelza kept repeating, while Ginny resigned herself to shooting silent, murderous glances at McLaggen's back. "4-0 lead, and McLaggen's own ego blows it for us."

"Ron's looking much better now, isn't he, though?" Katie pointed out, and they all looked toward the bench: sure enough Weasley sat moving his wrist in circles and flicking it upside down, and it was a quite good sign that he was doing so without wincing in pain, visibly or otherwise. "He'd better come in for the second half."

"Not for the first fifteen minutes," Ginny said bitterly, and Demelza and Katie both looked as if they'd remembered something they'd much rather had never existed.

"What do you mean?" asked Granger, who was apparently the only one that hadn't caught why Ginny had said that.

"It's a league rule," Ginny explained. "Something about fairness, or about 'unjust strategizing'. They basically want to prevent you from only putting in subs to give your main player a break— why, I couldn't tell you, when that's the whole _point_ of subs sometimes. The rule is, if you put in a substitute player, any player, he must play 10 continuous minutes across the match. But for some reason, substitute goalies must play _30_ — something about not enough gameplay, I suppose. That was only 15 minutes last half; he has to start with another 15 and then Ron can come back in."

"Well, that's a stupid rule," remarked Granger.

"And _you're_ one to say it," said Ginny, teasing at her usual goody-goody-two-shoes approach to rules.

The truth was, Granger's mind _could_ understand why that rule was put in place, but her heart —beating a steady red with simmering anger— couldn't. She was here to see Weasley right? And the longer McLaggen played, the less she'd see him play, the very thing she'd come here for.

"Is there no way to get him out before those 15 minutes elapse?" she turned to Ginny, her brain already beginning to whir.

Ginny shook her head: "Not unless he commits two fouls to get red-carded out. And that's going to look badly on _us_."

Granger sank further into her seat, arms crossed over her chest and brow furrowed. If she could only think of some way to get Weasley back on the field, without a plethora of league rules getting in the way!

At last, halftime ended, and the referee's whistle brought the twenty-two players back onto the pitch. McLaggen scampered back toward the goal with the same smug strut, but his face no longer bore a smile. A second whistle pierced through the atmosphere, and they were off at it again.

If Granger had thought the Durmstrang game had been tough on her nerves, this game yet again made the other one look like a relaxing spa day. Granger sat on the edge of her seat, gnawing nervously at her nails, her eyes darting back and forth with the ball and praying that no one would volley it over the midfield toward where McLaggen could screw it up.

The first few minutes transpired without too much of a tragedy: the Ilvermorny players were continuing to play dirty, but McLaggen had remained (thankfully) quiet, and he seemed a lot more focused than he had been the last half. But when an Ilvermorny player launched the ball into the net (and Granger thought her heart was about to skip out of her throat), McLaggen miraculously put his hands forth and caught it, cradling it to his chest for a second before kicking it over to the other side. Smith, at midfield, received it, and made a pass to Montague that, with an agile feint on Davis's part, soon turned into another goal for the University.

That detonated a new wave of cockiness in McLaggen, who lost his focus and instead championed himself to anyone in close proximity (yet again, the poor defenders), saying so loudly even Granger in the bleachers caught wind of it, "Did you see that? That's a goal on me, y'know. If I hadn't scored it and kicked it so masterfully, Montague would've never scored it."

Even Granger, who would never pretend to know more about football than she truly did, knew there had been a few more significant steps in the goal than merely his stop and kick, but McLaggen was caught up in haughtiness, the smugness again coming off of him in waves. And again, the Ilvermorny striker used it as a chance to sneak another ball past him and soundly into the net.

Ginny groaned: "Is he thick in the head? Is that it? Does he not understand that this isn't about him?"

"Ginny," Granger said, turning desperately to her friend, "there has to be something we can do. What else can get your brother subbed in faster?"

"I told you, two yellow cards, which isn't likely to happen in 12 minutes."

"No, I mean, isn't there anything else?"

Ginny paused to think. "Well, just off the top of my head, I suppose there is one other league rule. Basically, players aren't supposed to interact with spectators while the game is on. I don't mean _look_ at the fans, you can definitely do that, but you can't lead a cheer, for example, or respond to what someone is screaming to you. In short, a player can't do anything more than just shoot the spectators a quick look, no matter _what_ it is the spectators are doing. But I don't see how we can make that work for us."

But Granger's mind was already full steam ahead, trying to find a way to do precisely that: how could she get McLaggen to 'interact' with her long enough to make him break the rule? She supposed she could yell his name and wave, but he'd just look at her and wink and turn back, and that wouldn't be nearly enough time. She _really_ had to earn his attention, and what's more, she had to hold it. Suppose she...?

_No._

Anything but _that_. That was too drastic a measure, even if it did seem to be the only way. 'I'll just wait it out,' she thought to herself, still following the ball attentively with her gaze. 'Maybe he won't blow it in the ten or so minutes he's got left.'

But when McLaggen got caught into an argument with Ritchie Coote, abandoning the goal to drag him by the collar to where McLaggen _thought_ Ritchie should be, and an Ilvermorny player scored a pathetically easy goal, it dawned on her that she may not have another choice.

"5-4," said Demelza nervously, as if reinforcing the sense of urgency already beginning to build inside Granger's mind. "I can't believe he singlehandedly blew that 4-0 lead. I still can't believe it."

That was it. It had been a preposterously unchallenging match, and if a team as lousy as Ilvermorny took their rightful place in the finals, Granger knew neither Weasley nor Harry would be able to live with themselves.

She _had_ to do it. She hadn't a choice.

It might live for her for years after, but _by God_ , she had to do it.

Gingerly, she trod her way to the far end of the field, where McLaggen had directed his advances at a gaggle of Ilvermorny girls. She knew it was the closest spot to him, as close as she could muster to ensure she didn't cross the spectator boundaries but was still within McLaggen's hearing (and seeing) distance. As she pushed past the Ilvermorny girls, who all shot her dirty looks, she steadied her breath and tried to tone down the adrenaline.

So she was _really_ doing this.

She waited until the ball was safely across the other side past midfield, where McLaggen wasn't in any immediate danger of blundering yet another goal against them, and took a deep breath.

She was _really, really_ doing this.

No time to lose, she thought as the ball perilously neared their side of the field again. "Hey, Cormac!" she called as seductively as she could. His head immediately whipped toward her. The seconds were ticking away now. _No time to lose, no time to lose._ Blocking any second thought, she held her breath, grabbed the lower end of both her top and her blouse, and yanked it upward to uncover her chest.

The game seemed to freeze, the crowd around her drawing in one deep, collective gasp. If Granger's face hadn't been shrouded by the cloth of her shirt, which she seemed to be stuck in holding up, she might have paid good money to see the look on both McLaggen and Weasley's faces.

McLaggen's eyes and mouth had dropped fully open, almost bugging out of his head, as he tried to make sense of the sight before him— and how it seemed to be directed at him. He had abandoned the game entirely, seemingly glued to the sight of Granger. Weasley's jaw had dropped as well, but he'd quickly collected it into a roguish grin so wide it almost spilled off his face, and he shook Dean while yelling in his face, even if he knew he might not get it, "She streaked, Thomas! She streaked!"

It wasn't until the whistle sliced again through the air that Granger returned to her senses and released her shirt, allowing it to drop back over her torso and surprised to find a goofy smile splitting her own lips. The smile only grew as she saw Coach Hooch drag McLaggen a bit too forcefully off the field and toward the bench (she, of course, had been praying for an excuse to sub him out anyway).

Weasley leapt of the bench and without even waiting for McLaggen to plant himself upon it ran out back onto the field, to the encouraging cheers of his team and the three other girls in the bleachers. Instinctively, his gaze turned to meet Granger's, and both of their smiles only broadened, in recognition of a shared joke that had, until now, not a chance of leaping past the realm of the _possible_ into that of the _real_.

Weasley was back in the game.

* * *

"It's a shame, really," Weasley said later, as the University team —positively glowing with the triumph of a 7-4 victory over Ilvermorny, having significantly regained their motivation after McLaggen had left the field— walked back to the shuttles, "that you came to _see_ the game, and didn't see about half of it."

"Well, now I can add 'kicked out of a football match by campus security' to the list of unlikely things I've done," Granger said, catching up to him and walking by his side, the same grin tracing her face. True enough, she had spent the second half at a considerable distance from the pitch, having been escorted out of the vicinities by the campus security officers the flustered referee had quickly summoned, glad at least that she'd brought a book with her in her purse. But she'd been unable to concentrate fully in her reading, listening intently for any auditory sign of the game's development. Judging by the silence of the considerable crowd, she was pleased to conclude that Ilvermorny was not, in fact, particularly excelling. And so it had been confirmed to her almost an hour later, when the sky had begun to dim with the first hints of sundown, and Weasley had emerged from the field running toward her and practically tackled her in a tangled, sweaty hug to let her know they'd won.

"To be brutally honest, Granger, I never would've thought you'd be capable of something like that. Feels good to be reckless, doesn't it?" he teased, shoving her playfully with a soft nudge of his shoulder, which she heartily returned.

"Don't get too used to it," she said with a wag of her finger. "That was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and it was less 'tapping into a rebellious streak' and more 'making sure McLaggen gets off the field before this turns into a catastrophe'."

"What a bummer," Weasley said. "The best damn moment of my life, and turns out she didn't even streak for me, but for Cormac fucking McLaggen."

"It was the best damn moment of _all_ our lives, mate," a breathless Dean Thomas said as he caught up to them in a jog and slapped Weasley's back joyfully. "Hell, I didn't even play, and McLaggen's _face_ was better than Christmas."

"Hear, hear," Weasley said, shoving him off along his way so he could be left alone with Granger again. With the shuttles in sight, and the rest of the men whooping and jigging clownishly on their way to the vans, Weasley merely beamed at them and hooked his arm through Granger's.

She didn't stiffen, or even pause: she settled naturally into his hold, even leaning slightly to press the side of her body against his.

"You're full of surprises, you know that, Granger?"

"The last thing I'd want to be around you is boring."

"That's never a risk," said Weasley, and meant it. He reverted to his customary jokiness: "But you still owe me."

"What do you mean I still owe you?"

"The deal was you'd come see me at a football game! Considering you didn't actually see about half of it, it doesn't count. You've gotta come to another one."

"Alright," Granger laughed, "alright. But I can't promise you I'll streak at that one."

"Oh, trust me, once was better than I could've ever wished for. I'll never forget this moment. I'll be on my deathbed, and this'll be the last thing I think about before I kick it."

Granger laughed again, and allowed herself to be helped by Weasley into one of the shuttles, where a few other people had already filed in.

The ride back was nothing like the ride there: rather than a silent, almost passive preparation mood, this was a full-on party. Almost all of the occupants of the shuttle— Harry, Dean, Ginny, Davies, Coote, Sloper, and Kirk— were all loudly slurring the lyrics to a popular football chant, drunk only on the post-win euphoria and needing nothing else. Though Weasley, again seated by her, sometimes joined the hullabaloo, Granger was also thankful to him for sometimes merely sitting down by her and extending her the still-half-full licorice bag, knowing she was one to stay out of the celebration, needing to say nothing but just reveling in the sparks flaring from their closeness.

At one point, Ginny's voice rose higher atop the general mirth, and she stood up on the shuttle seat to look behind her at Granger and Weasley's seat: "And to Hermione! Because without her, and her brilliant, _brilliant_ ways, McLaggen would've gotten us out of the tournament!"

The rest of the passengers erupted into a cheer (even Coach Hooch, riding in the front with the driver, couldn't stifle a smile) and chanted Granger's name over and over, making her turn a deeper shade of red.

"Hermione," Harry said, wiping tears of laughter from behind his glasses, "I am so, _so_ glad that your decision to let your hair down and be an _exhibitionist_ came at exactly the right moment."

"Literally the _perfect_ moment," Coote pitched in, and turned to Coach Hooch in the front. "Coach, can we make Hermione Granger the MVP for this year?"

"Absolutely not!" trilled Hooch from the front, plunging the group into yet another round of laughter. This time, Granger joined in: it was hard to resist a mood this giddy, and especially so when everyone made it feel like it was owed to _her_.

"You really, _really_ did surprise me," Weasley told just her when they'd all gotten bored of the raucous merriment and had simmered back down to a pleasant, bubbling chatter. "I really didn't think you had it in you to do something like that.

"Nor did I," Granger said, "and my parents will kill me if it ever gets out."

"So why'd you do it?"

The words _'for you'_ almost slipped past Granger's lips before she could collect her better judgment and come out with something a little less formal. "Well, I wanted us to win, didn't I?"

"Nice to see you talking about _us_ ," Weasley smiled softly, and Granger felt that phrase reverberate with the force of a thousand words unsaid.

_Us._

The shuttle, at last, rolled back into the University, parking where it had collected them. The players and their companions descended from the shuttles, thanking the drivers and bidding Coach Hooch a great night, and filing back toward the better-lit Hogsmeade Lane for a late dinner and some more celebrating. 

Weasley, Granger, Ginny, Harry, Demelza, Katie, and Dean all walked together, chattering animatedly about some of the game's more exciting moments and beginning to craft a strategy for semifinals. Unable to butt in and make suggestions, Granger merely listened with interest until they reached a fork in the walkway, where she parted from the group to continue right, away from Hogsmeade Lane and toward where she knew her flat was.

"And just where are you going?" Weasley's voice froze her in her tracks, and she turned around to face him, almost embarrassed.

"Well, I thought I might go back to my flat and... embroider..." she said, losing volume as she spoke and realized how utterly ridiculous it sounded.

Weasley scoffed: " _Embroider._ The woman bares her breasts to an entire football pitch, and she's going back home to _embroider_."

"Well, what else am I going to do?" Granger asked sheepishly.

"Join us for dinner, of course," Weasley said matter-of-factly, as if there had never been another possibility. He walked over to her and again looped his arm in hers, marching her back to the group.

"But I'm not... I don't play football," Granger offered meekly.

"Nonsense," Ginny said, grinning and looping her own arm around Granger's other one. "C'mon, let's go celebrate."

Weasley nodded in agreement with his sister, and looked to Granger: "Absolutely. You absolutely _must_. You're one of _us_ , after all."

And as they all marched in a clump toward Hogsmeade Lane, still chattering animatedly and occasionally breaking out into the odd chant or two, Granger again pondered how utterly lovely that same word — _us_ —, and all it held in it, sounded.


	32. Chapter 32

Bagshot Hall was alight with the flurry of the last day of term, when everyone was due to go home. Even in adulthood, long past the eager wait of childhood for school to let out, there was a collective aura of relief at the feel of a brief respite from academic responsibility and the temporary liberty to do nothing but relax. This was the day where the vast majority of the University's body, those not living on campus or going back to their families, shuttled to Paddington Station to catch coaches or trains that would take them back home. It was the blissful feeling of let-out.

But not, of course, room 228, at least not yet: Granger was holding the last project meeting of term, to update everyone on the project's status and its going forward (as participants) and to bid them all goodbye and wish them a happy holiday season (as friends).

She came into the room at the same time as Weasley (who, miraculously, was not late), and he smiled at her out of the corner of his mouth: "Alright, Granger?"

"Certainly," she said, and quickly blurted out an apology when a small covered basket she was carrying bumped against him.

"What's in the basket?" Weasley asked, and started to lift one corner of the covering cloth before Granger snatched it out of his reach.

"No prying," she scolded him, switching the basket to the arm away from him. "You'll find out soon enough.

"You're no fun," Weasley groaned.

"Half the fun is the mystery," Granger fired back as she settled behind the desk at the front of the room. "Now, shoo! I have a meeting to run, you know."

"Oh, but of course, _Dr. Granger_ ," Weasley gave her a mocking bow and went to the rows of desks to sit by Harry and Seamus, who were chatting animatedly.

Shaking her head amusedly at him, Granger got everything in order and hooked up her laptop to the room's projector cable. As she got her slides set up (the first time she'd done so, but she supposed she should give a visual recap if this was the last time they were to meet this term), the remaining participants trickled into the room, coming in mostly by twos and chattering lightly. When the last person had come in through the door (Neville, covered in dirt and still wearing a greenhouse apron, panting apologies about how he'd lost track of time), Granger went over to the door and closed it, preparing herself to start the meeting.

"Alright, everyone! I won't keep you long, because I know the last shuttle for London leaves in a couple of hours and you've all got home to go back to, so let's keep this brief," she commanded their attention, walking to the center of the room in front of the desk— she had long since stopped standing behind it, ceasing to need it is a protective barrier between herself and an audience that no longer intimidated her.

"Brief, she says, and prepares a PowerPoint," came Weasley's voice from the second row, eliciting a lithe round of laughter from the room.

Granger smiled, glad the mood was warming up, where just a few months ago Weasley's quip would've made her cower. "Be quiet, Weasley, or I'll keep you here for two hours extra so you have to pay for your own coach back to Paddington."

"How threatening," Weasley said, but gave her a small smile and settled back into contented silence.

"As I was saying before Weasley deigned to criticize my slideshow choices, thank you for making it to the last project meeting of the term! This shouldn't take more than a few minutes, but I thought you'd like me to update you on the project process up to now and what we can expect moving forward."

She switched the slides, and a few highlighted phrases from Shacklebolt's written feedback appeared against the white backdrop. "First off, Dr. Shacklebolt is loving it thus far. He says we have good material from the interviews, he's loving some of the more creative aspects of it, and he's very interested in the pool of participants. Basically, we're golden. Moving forward..." she began, and switched the slide to one with bulletpoints titled 'What's Next', "when we come back from winter holiday, I'll be having some more one-on-ones with you. You should also expect to be called by the PR department for some photography sessions, just so we can get your portrait in for the project, and to provide some other photos of you in your line of work or as a University student to add to your profile. And, lastly, you can expect some more creative projects like the record store— I'll think them over during the holiday.

"That's all from me, so now, what do I need from you?" She switched the slides again, to one with a candid photograph of Ginny, Harry, Luna, and Neville running around Remembrall Records on that Friday, which they were (judging by their gasps of elated surprise) completely unaware she'd taken. "If you weren't able to be at Remembrall a few Fridays ago, I need you to send me —over the winter holiday is fine— your favorite record so I can listen to it. To those that _were_ at Remembrall, I'll be finishing the listening during the break. But continuing with what _you_ have to do..."

She switched the slide to one reading 'Winter Holiday Task', which predictably drew a collective groan from the audience. "I know we all hate assignments, but this one really is very simple. I want you to think of _one_ word, any word, that you feel captures you. Rules," she continued, and a few listed rules appeared under the main heading at the click of the pointer. "Number one, it cannot be an adjective. Number two, bonus points if it's in any way related to your academic field. Number three, you're allowed to submit an explanation of _why_ you chose that word, but you don't have to, it just means you won't leave it to my interpretation. And number four, it can only be _one_ word. No more than that. Not a phrase, not a couple of options. _One_ word.

"And lastly, I would really appreciate it if any of you could reach out to me with any ideas you have for the project over winter holiday. I'd love to bring in some more of your input, and you can always reach out."

She switched the slide again, to one reading:

_WINTER HOLIDAY TO-DO'S  
\- Send me a record you feel best represents your "voice", if you weren't at Remembrall.  
\- One word that you feel captures you. (Optional: explain why)  
\- Reach out to me with any ideas you have for the project!_

"Any questions?" Granger put forth, allowing the slide to linger behind her back.

Luna's hand was the first to go up: "Can it be a made-up word?"

Granger was a bit dumbfounded: she'd never even considered that. "I suppose it can," she answered —what else did she expect from Luna, really?—, "but then you have to add in a definition or explanation of what the word means."

Luna nodded with a queer little smile. Zabini's hand went up next.

"How do we send these things to you?"

"You all have my email, but if you want to text me, that works just as well with me too."

Next, Weasley's hand was up, and Granger braced herself for whatever he'd say next. She was well to do so: "Miss," he said in an exaggeratedly high-pitched voice, "do we get an F if we don't turn our homework in?"

That brought with it another outburst of laughter, in which Granger readily joined. "Get out of here, Weasley, it's literally the shortest task you'll ever have to do— it's one word."

"But what about all the thinking? That's hard in and of itself."

"I'll choose to ignore that and consider your question answered," Granger said, and turned back to the general room. "Any more questions?"

She was met with only heads shaking, but no more hands darted up. "Alright, then that concludes it for this meeting. But before you leave..." she said just as people were beginning to stir to get up, which sent them back to their seats. She reached behind her and grabbed the small covered basket she'd placed on her desk. "Not as a project director, but as a friend, I wanted to thank you all for a marvelous term. You all have been immensely kind to me, and I can only count myself lucky I have the continued opportunity to work with you all. So, I suppose as a little holiday present, I've a little something to give you all."

She uncovered the basket and left the podium, traveling around the room and setting the contents of the basket in each occupant's hands. Luna was the first to receive hers: "A bookmark?"

Granger nodded: the basket had held a bunch of cloth bookmarks, sewn together with different-colored thread and embroidered lavishly with each person's name in careful calligraphy. The string that swung from the bookmark's top, knotted into a neat tassel, was the same color as the thread used for the name and the edges. "I know it's not much," she said with a bashful smile, "but it's a little token of my appreciation."

"I love it," said Luna in a whisper, turning the bookmark over in her hands, and that turned Granger's heart over.

She moved between the lecture tables, handing each person the corresponding bookmark with their name and her heart swelling even more with each thrilled 'thank-you' she received. The last bookmark in the little basket was for Weasley, and she sauntered up to him with a special glint in her eyes.

"So that's what was in the basket," was what Weasley said when she'd come up to him.

"See why I had to go back and embroider?" she said, hinting back at the night after the Ilvermorny football game.

"You really didn't have to," said Weasley, beaming down at his small bookmark (which read _Ronald_ in an orange-red). "It was a Christmas present ten times over just to see you streak—"

"Oh, leave that," urged Granger, blushing furiously.

"Not a chance," said Weasley gleefully. "I'm going to remember it forever, and bring it up many, many times during all that."

"Lord help me," Granger mouthed as she went back to the desk in the front of the room, from where she looked at her whole auditorium. She allowed herself a moment to just take it in: all those people, who mere months ago had been strangers, smiling up idly at her and holding the place of 'friends' in her life. She counted herself lucky to have met them all, and for a second, forfeit her disappointment at abandoning her own research project, just for having met them all. Maybe it was the sentimentality of the holiday season speaking, but hey: she was allowed an instant of warmth.

"That's all from me," she said to the room, the atmosphere of which had warmed significantly from an academic meeting to a friendly farewell. "Happy holidays, everyone, and have a safe trip home!"

She remained behind the desk as everyone filed out to finish their packing and haul their luggage down to the coach station, wishing her a happy holiday season as well and thanking her again for her little gift. Granger beamed at each of them, exchanging a few more words here and there with some people, with the lull of temporary finality afforded by a vacation. 

The last person in line to say his farewells was, of course, Weasley, whose demeanor had toned down considerably and settled peaceably into a hinting smile. "Thanks for the bookmark," he told her. 

"It's really nothing," she said. The last person left the room, and so, Granger realized, they came to be alone.

This seemed to dawn on Weasley as well, because, without fully meeting her eyes, he cleared his throat and spoke again: "So, I s'pose I'll see you after the holidays, then."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Granger quietly, and leaned over the desk to plant a chaste kiss on his freckled cheek. "Have a good winter, Ronald."

"I'll see you in a few weeks," he said uncharacteristically shyly, taking his fingertips up to where her lips had touched his skin. He gave her a last, awkward wave, and left the hall as well to chase after Ginny, who'd take the coach with him.

As she watched the back of him disappear through the door, her lips still glowing as the embers to that quick kiss, her ears still ringing with his last words ("I'll see you in a few weeks"), she wasn't entirely convinced she could wait that long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter, transitional chapter today— I've got a bit of a busy weekend, and I've been posting all my RFF works at long last. Plus, I have big plans for the next chapter, which will be a very long and very sweet one— I hope, then, this shorter one is okay. :)


	33. Chapter 33

Christmas at The Burrow —the nickname the neighbors of Ottery St. Catchpole had bestowed on the Weasley family's towering, eclectic mass of a house, and which they'd happily appropriated— had been its usual family affair. All seven of the Weasley children had come home for the holidays, and the Burrow was back to its usual warm, bustling self, maybe a bit more cramped than usual from the family each of the children had towed along, but 'the more the merrier' might as well be the Weasleys' motto.

There was Bill, the eldest, who had come back from a season in France with his wife, Fleur, and their two-year-old daughter Victoire. Charlie had also come back from a season in Romania, where he was enacting the first practical application of his zoology degree by doing an in-depth study of the 23 reptile species on Romanian grounds. Percy, who held a good office job in the City of London, had made a shorter trek, but had brought along a tall, chestnut-haired woman with strong bones who he'd introduced as "Audrey, my girlfriend." Fred and George, the twins, had also had a shorter trip, since they ran a successful joke shop near Piccadilly Circus and lived above it, but had told Ron they'd made a point to avoid Percy on the way there.

Their mother, Molly, was ecstatic at having a full house again, and had spent every long night between Christmas Eve and now pestering her returned children with questions about their lives, stuffing them with far too many servings of food, and engaging in her perpetual losing battle to get Bill and Charlie to cut their hair. Her husband Arthur, an engineer with a fascination for how _everything_ worked, had delighted in hearing all about how Romanian electric sockets looked or how French mealtimes differed from the British ones, and it had all provided wonderful fodder for those long talks at the dinner table that lasted long into the A.M.

Conversations, of course, that Ron and Ginny, laden with the household chores Molly would never dare assign to the others, were seldom a part of.

"You'd think we'd never left," grumbled Ginny, bent over a bucket into which the shavings from the potato she had in her hands to peel were falling. "We spend a term at University, we come home, and it's like we're no better than a couple of doormats. I'm _twenty-five_ — there's no reason she should still boss me around like this."

"To be fair, Bill and the lot of them do have more interesting stories," Ron said, doing the same with a pile of carrots. "What would you rather listen to? Us brag about the grad studies that three out of her seven children already have? Or all about French cafes or how Charlie keeps hunting after lizards at the risk of his fingers?" He nodded his head toward Percy, whom they could both see through the door from their station in the kitchen. "Even Percy brought home a girlfriend this year."

" _I_ bring Harry every year," said Ginny defensively, tossing the peeled potato into a third bucket between them where they were tossing the ready vegetables. "And _I_ still get stuck in the kitchen to prepare vegetables for mum's stew."

"But Harry's different, he's come here every year since we were boys, she dotes on him like he's her son," Ron said offhandedly, grabbing another carrot. "Where is he, anyway? Maybe if he'd stayed for a few days after Christmas he would've freed us from the chores."

"I told you, he had to go back to his flat at the University. He forgot the stack of final exams for his law students, and he had to get them to grade."

"Couldn't he just give them all an A and be done with it?"

"He's a serious professor, Ron."

"Oh, I bet you _love_ saying you've got a _serious_ professor boyfriend—"

"You'd better not piss me off while I've got a potato peeler in my hand," Ginny said, wagging it threateningly at him before returning to the spuds. "Besides, he's coming back tonight in time for the New Year's Eve celebration. He said he'd never miss it, he's on the coach here already."

"Still seems an awfully long way to go, all the way to the University and back, just for a stack of papers. Especially when the grading deadline isn't till the second week of January."

"Maybe he just likes to get things done promptly."

"When has Harry ever been one to do that? He's the only person I've ever met who's as messy as I am," Ron snorted, tossing yet another carrot into the growing middle pile. He dismissed the subject of Harry: "Now be honest, Gin, are you _really_ looking forward to tonight's stew?"

"I mean, I'll never say no to mum's cooking, especially not after University food. But it does seem awfully bleak to have _stew_ be the last thing we eat for the year."

"Too bad we're slaving away over something we're not much looking forward to."

"Oh, cheer up, her cheesy potatoes and her puddings are always excellent. And the stew's not bad at all."

"I s'pose you're right," said Ron, and grabbed another carrot.

Outside the kitchen, there was a small flurry in the dining room as the doorbell pierced over the amicable conversation atmosphere. "That must be Harry!" cried Molly excitedly, getting out of her chair to go open the door.

From the kitchen, Ron and Ginny didn't hear much but an affectionate exchange of greetings, followed by a round of the same as Harry made his way around the table to greet each one of Ron's brothers.

"That's weird," Ron remarked to Ginny. "It all sounds a bit politer than it should, considering Harry's family. You don't think there's someone else with him?"

Ginny stayed silent, but Ron soon got his answer as he raised his gaze to the kitchen door and found not only Harry, but —his jaw dropped— _Granger_ standing by him. She looked sheepish, natural considering she'd just met the whole band of Weasleys, and was wearing a pair of smart emerald trousers with flared bottoms paired with a sharp black turtleneck with a gold necklace pending between her chest, her hair pulled back into a half twist and the tamed brown locks (had she straightened it?) cascading over her upper back.

"We're here," Harry announced, as if it wasn't sufficiently clear.

"Granger!" Ron said, trying to disguise the initial shock still reverberating around him. "What a surprise!"

"I hope it's okay," Granger said, tucking a strand of stray hair behind her ear and still looking away shyly. "My parents went to Australia with some friends for the New Year, and I really didn't have many plans, so when Harry invited me and came to collect me earlier it seemed like much too good to pass out on."

"Absolutely!" said Ginny brightly, rising from the stool and past the buckets to go give Granger a stiff hug, careful not to let her messy hands touch Granger. "Sorry about this, by the way, but I've got potato all over me."

"It's alright!" Granger said, laughing, and only then did she look straight at Ron. Her eyes, he noticed, were framed with a thin eyeliner and under light grey eyeshadow, and her lips were accentuated by a taupe shade of lipstick. Ron was convinced, at that moment, that the combined shock of Granger showing up for New Year's at the Burrow _and_ wearing makeup might be just about enough to send him bowling over facefirst into the bucket of carrot peels before him. "Need any help? I'm quite handy at cooking, and I'd love to give something back for your kind invitation—"

"Absolutely not," came a new voice from the doorway. It was Molly, still in her houseclothes, now flanking Granger. "You're here as a guest, dear, not a kitchen maid. I hope you'll forgive that we haven't yet changed for dinner— we're all a bit of homebodies, when our children are home. But come along to the living room, please, we'd love to talk to you," she said with a sweet smile, and placing her hand on Granger's back, led her out of the kitchen and toward the living room, with the familiar stream of friendly chatter that made everyone feel immediately welcome at the Burrow.

Harry smiled at them, then turned back to Ron and Ginny. "I suppose I'd better go join them," he said through the same lopsided smile, "or else your mum will show up here to ask why I'm still here and have at you for still not being done with those potatoes," he gave them a knowing wink, having been on the receiving end of many a Burrow chore before, and disappeared where Molly and Granger had.

Ron, still dumbstruck, allowed it to seep in for an instant or two more before he turned to Ginny with narrowed eyes: "There _were_ no papers Harry had to go for, were there?"

Ginny smirked, stifling a laugh: "Think of it as a belated Christmas present to you from us both. Now come on, let's finish these, we can't give mum a chance to come in here and bite our heads off."

* * *

To the Weasley family —once changed, tidied, and seated at the dinner table—, their new guest was an enchantment.

"So, Hermione," Bill said as he sipped from his wineglass, the bottle of fancy white he'd brought back from France. "What do you do?"

"I'm a linguist," Granger explained in between bites of Molly's stew (which was, in her opinion, well worth the pain of peeling vegetables). "I specialize in ancient languages and documents— codexes, scrolls, the like. A sort of Rosetta's stone, if you will."

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about a University project on some Celtic scrolls, would you?" Bill said casually, his fork hanging in the air.

Everything lit up for Granger: "Yes!" she blurted out a little too quickly, brimming over with excitement. Finally, someone talking to her about a project that wasn't for publicity! "Yes, actually— I'm the head linguist for it! My first postdoctoral project, so big expectations, but that would be me!"

"No way!" Bill said, leaving his fork back on the plate. " _I'm_ leading the archaeology team digging up that cave system!"

"Really?! How come I didn't know?"

"My guess is they've kept the two branches separate," Bill said, shrugging. "I thought they might've told you after we got stumped on that scroll."

"Yeah, I was about to say, I haven't worked on the project much lately..."

"I assure you, we're just as lost as you are. I've got my team working on it day and night. I mean, you didn't really think the scrolls just popped out of nowhere, did you?"

"Absolutely not!" said Granger, thrilled. "I just didn't know one of Ronald's brothers was the archaeologist!"

"Zee best," his wife, Fleur, piped up, with a lingering French accent. "Bill 'as a specialization in European archaeology. We met during one of hees research voyages in France."

"This is all terribly exciting," Granger said, unable to tear the grin away from her face. She turned to Weasley, who was seated next to her: "Ronald, why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Believe it or not, I don't passionately follow my brothers' academic careers," said Weasley with a smirk that earned him a mildly obscene gesture from Bill. "I used to, but then Charlie started hunting lizards and that was the final straw."

The table, even Charlie, laughed heartily: his study of reptiles had been the butt of many a joke ever since he'd declared that's what he'd wanted to do his doctorate in. "You laugh, Ron, but it's the closest we've got to dragons," Charlie wagged his fork at his brother before turning to Granger. "I'm a doctor in zoology, and reptiles are my field of specialty. Obviously, we haven't got very many in England, so I've spent a lot of time abroad."

 _It showed_ , Granger thought: Charlie's face was tanner than his siblings' pale complexions, and the skin on his neck was peeling in a way that suggested a sunburn England obviously couldn't've given him.

"What exactly does a linguist do?" Mr. Weasley —who had insisted that Granger call him Arthur— asked with interest written plainly all over his face.

"Well, all sorts of things," Granger explained, taking another bite of her stew and chewing politely in between. "Many linguists today go into advertising, but most still end up as English teachers in schools. Some write and correct dictionaries, some train actors for diction, and an increasingly large number is working on developing speech-pattern artificial intelligence technology to program robots to understand and speak back to us, for example. The most interesting, to me, aside from my own branch, are those that travel to isolated or indigenous communities and document their specific languages or dialects to preserve them from cultural extinction. I've got to do with the preservation of culture too: I work in historical linguistics, which means I study mostly extinct languages, but I'm trained in everything in between— I did ace my undergraduate degree, after all."

"And what is– what is that 'everything in between'?" Arthur inquired, leaning forward on his elbows and seemingly oblivious to his fork slipping from his fingers and landing with a clang back on his plate.

"You mean the basics?"

"Yes, I suppose I do. I'm a mechanical engineer, after all— I like to know how everything works, and one can't do that without the basics."

"I suppose not! Well, we study the compositions of languages— morphological roots (how we make up words), phonetics (how certain languages sound— Mandarin for example is a tonal language, while something like Spanish is phonetic), semantics (what words mean), and syntaxis (how we build sentences)."

"There's a way to build sentences for each language?" Arthur continued pressing, his eyes glinting with the excitement of interest that had Granger all too happy to keep talking.

"Yes, absolutely! Each language has one. For example, the order of adjectives in the English language is quantity-opinion-size-shape-age-color-origin-material-purpose and then the noun. Which is why if I say 'many worn-down small thin old white paper coloring books', it makes sense, but if I say something like 'small worn-down many white old coloring paper thin books', suddenly you have no idea what I'm talking about."

"Incredible," whispered Arthur, and the fascinated glaze over his eyes showed he meant it.

"And you know all that grocery list off the top of your head?" Weasley asked her. Granger merely nodded proudly, remembering a time where she'd had to rattle them off infinite times in preparation for her very first undergrad linguistics exam.

"Do you know any other languages?" Fleur asked

Granger nodded: "I study mostly old versions of languages, so I've always had to dabble a bit in the current versions to have something to measure up against. But I speak, aside from English, fluent Italian and French."

That was obviously what Fleur wanted to hear: " _Magnifique!_ " she said in a high voice. " _Je crois que nous allons être très bonnes_ _amies_."

"Give her what I can't, Hermione," Bill addressed her, reaching for his wife's hand. "I've always been absolute pants at French."

The conversation, after that, spread out more evenly: this was also the first time the Weasleys met Audrey, Percy's girlfriend, who told them about her job as a market research analyst in the same company where Percy worked. Granger thought Percy was, with all likeliness, the odd one from the Weasley bunch: listening to everyone else's unique occupations, it seemed hardly fitting that Percy would be the only one to hold a more conventional job.

"I know what you're thinking," Weasley nudged her on her right side, startling her a bit. He nodded toward Percy. "Percy's always been a bit of a snob. He's got a permanent hard-on for authority figures, and we've gotten into some pretty ugly rifts about it. Usually it starts with Fred or George joking about how he's in love with his boss, and usually it ends with Percy screaming at us for 'not being more normal'. It got so ugly once that he didn't come home for three years or so— so now he's been back three more times mum has banned Fred and George from talking about it."

Percy, Granger thought as he surveyed him with this new information, was exactly the kind of boyfriend her parents would've loved her to have. Respectful to the point of reverence, with 'a real job' and a healthy knack for sounding more adult than he really let on, they would've been thrilled if she'd brought him home. What would they think about someone like—?

She looked to Weasley with a jolt of her head, her thoughts snapping almost unconsciously to him. Say, hypothetically, she were to date Weasley, not just keep playing this little flirtatious game they both seemed to have been jigging in for months now? What would her parents say, then? Would the welcome to the dinner table be as warm as the one the Weasley's had gifted her, despite her not even being Weasley's girlfriend? And, of course, there could be no talk of that last football game and her... _antics_ during it, not unless Weasley wanted her father to go into cardiac arrest over a plate of her mother's honeymead pork chops. But she supposed they'd have to relent at some point or another, right? If it made her happy?

"You're staring," Weasley mumbled, yanking her out of her stupor (in which she had, in fact, allowed her gaze to linger on him a little more conspicuously than she'd've liked to).

"Sorry," she whispered back, and wiped away a nonexistent spot at the corner of her mouth just so the napkin could help her disguise a bit of her growing blush. Surely she wasn't thinking of Weasley as...? And would it be so bad, if she was?

"Hermione, darling, any more stew?" came Molly's voice, as she held out the still-half-full crockpot (Molly cooked enough to feed a regiment) to Granger.

Granger shook her head with a polite smile: "No, thank you. I've been very well fed."

"Good choice," George chimed in as Molly gave her a sweet smile and retreated to the kitchen. "You're going to want to save room for her pudding, it's the best part of any meal."

"That pudding has most certainly been dearly missed," remarked Percy, the first Granger had heard him speak at the table.

Fred and George shot each other a mischievous glance: their mum may have banned the romantic pairing of Percy with his beloved boss, but there were other ways to have fun at his pompousness's expense.

"Perce, do you know who we've got sitting at the table with us tonight?"

"Ms. Granger?" Percy asked calmly, affording Granger a side glance.

Fred and George shot one look at Ronald; he caught it and that was it, he was in. "It's _Dr._ Granger, actually, Perce," he said, bringing a confused Granger into the conversation. "Did you know she's the youngest PhD the University has ever seen?"

That, in Percy's books, was ground enough for admiration: anything that entailed a uniquely significant achievement, in his eyes, turned a person ten times more interesting. "My, my, I did not! Ronald, you never mentioned that!"

"Why would I?" muttered Ron, struggling as hard as Fred and George to contain his snickering.

"Watch him, if he gets any more flustered, he might try to kiss her hand," whispered Fred to George beside him, still exchanging roguish looks with Ron across the table.

"Dr. Granger, this is such an honor," Percy continued, doing a funny little bow in his seat before awkwardly extending his hand out for a handshake. Perplexed, Granger took it and shook, and Percy looked to be over the moon. "It is truly humbling to be in the presence of a mind as extraordinary as your own."

"Mind you, he never congratulated Bill or Percy on _their_ PhDs," Weasley whispered to her, but she gave no sign of hearing him.

"You flatter me, truly," she said, withdrawing her hand gracefully and placing it back on her lap. "It really is not all everyone makes it sound—"

"And modest, too!" Percy said, and sounded as if he'd witnessed a divine revelation. "So does this mean, finally, we've got someone at this table with some taste?"

"'Ey!" protested Fleur from the far end of the table.

"By that he means," Fred stepped in, "whether or not you like, I don't know, _opera_."

"I most certainly do!" said Granger, and the three youngest Weasley brothers were marveled at the ability with which she could match Percy's pompousness.

It was a miracle that Percy didn't bowl over right then and there: "I can't believe it! I used to live awfully close to the Royal Opera House —isn't that right, Audrey?—, and I still go religiously. They've got a Puccini season going on right now, did you know?"

"I definitely did! It's been a shame to miss it, he's my favorite," Granger said, and it was all Percy could do, Ron thought, not to faint.

"Alright, alright, leave him alone now, he's going to get a stroke if this keeps coming." Weasley said, pulling Granger lightly back into her chair. He spoke lower: "I can't believe this same opera girl is the one that streaks at football games.

"Oh, give it a rest," Granger said, but the blush was back. "I'm just being nice, I can tell you're teasing him."

At that moment, Molly came back through the kitchen door, carrying a huge brown cake that smelled deliciously of apples and cinnamon, as well as a platterful of star-shaped butter cookies. She disappeared again and came back once more, with a large plate of almond toffee and a small bowl in which a handful of caramels skittered. "Coffee, anyone?" she offered, but Bill stood up, gently grabbed her by the shoulders, and steered her back toward her seat.

"I'll make the coffee, mum. You've worked hard enough."

"I'll go with you," Charlie said, getting up from his seat too and joining his older brother in the kitchen.

"Please make sure not to burn it!" Percy called out waveringly, then turned to Granger with the trust of someone who has found a common bond. "Ever since Audrey and I bought a Rancilio, I simply struggle to have powdered coffee anymore. It's absolutely atrocious to even call it coffee, if you ask me."

Granger smiled politely, giving Percy the sense of agreement he was looking for, and grabbed one of the cookies on the heaping plate Molly had brought out. It wasn't long before Bill and Charlie returned, juggling an inordinate amount of coffee mugs. As they went back to the kitchen for the coffeepot, Granger surveyed the array of mugs: there was one reading "best dad ever" in scraggly handwriting, several with the University emblem, a handmade-looking mustard-colored one... The messy, mismatched pile of mugs, she thought, matched the Burrow perfectly.

"So, Harry," Bill said as he came back, carrying one of the coffeepots, with Charlie carrying the other behind him. "How's the football team doing this year? Big things?"

"We've passed to semifinals," Harry said hurriedly through a mouthful of cookie, spewing crumbs all over Ginny, who —rather than wrinkle her nose— merely spat a few at him in return. Harry dusted himself off amusedly, swallowed the rest of the cookie, and turned to Bill. "We beat Ilvermorny shortly before term ended."

Weasley gently elbowed Granger in the ribs again, and she, knowing exactly what he was hinting at, returned his mischievous smile and gave his thigh a light pinch under the table, so as to say 'don't you dare bring it up.'

"Nice! It'd be nice to go all the way this year, wouldn't it?" Bill commended him.

"Definitely, if Beauxbatons doesn't send us packing in the semifinal round."

"Ooh, zat will be an 'ard game to root for," Fleur said sadly. "I never played football myself, but eet is eether loyalty to your husband or to your alma mater."

"Fleur got her BFA in fashion studies at Beauxbatons," Bill explained to the table, and suddenly her impeccable dress made even better sense to Granger.

"You'd theenk we wouldn't 'ave such good football, being artists, but zere you have it," Fleur said, beaming proudly.

"What about you, Hermione? Do you like football?" Charlie asked her.

There it was, that nudge from Weasley again. He piped up: "Oh, she's a devoted fan." And then a wink! What was he doing to her?

Fighting back a blush, Granger answered for herself: "I wasn't much into it until this year. It was Ginny, Ronald, and Harry that got me into it, really."

"Once you're in, you can never get out, eh?" Charlie gave her a crooked grin. "All of us Weasley kids —except Perce— played football for the University. It's a bit of a family thing now, really."

"Especially if you consider that every championship the University has taken for the past fifteen years or so has had a Weasley kid playing in it," George said. "They don't start a Hall of Fame 'cause it'd have 'Weasley' in at least a hundred of those little plaques."

"That's hyperbole," scoffed Percy from the other end of the table, and the twins smirked at each other, mimicking him.

"Say, all of you, what do you say to a game of football after dessert?" Charlie proposed, slicing himself a generous portion of the apple cake.

"Oh, Charlie, it'll be dark out," Molly chastised him.

"Adds to the fun, mum," he said, grinning wildly, and Granger was beginning to see that that roguish defiance she'd noticed so many times in Ronald might just be a Weasley trait. "We'll bring out torches and play in the dark. C'mon, who's in?"

Every Weasley sibling raised their hand (even Percy, reluctantly, when Audrey raised it for him with the arm she didn't have raised already). Even Arthur meekly joined before Molly pulled his hand down, saying something about how they 'needed to be on hand if anything happens'. Even little Victoire, who'd been nestled in her chair chomping mousily through a stack of cookies, waved her hand wildly in the air without fully understanding what it meant. All in all, aside from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, it was only Granger that had kept her hand down.

The table's attention turned collectively to her, as if a dozen floodlights had trained their laserlike gaze on her. Granger felt flustered under all that attention: "Oh, I'm really quite hopeless at football—"

"C'mon, Hermione, we're missing one to make us even," Bill prompted her. "By the looks of Victoire, Fleur might end up being a babysitter more than a player."

"I don't know, I really don't think I'll be an asset—"

"Neither will Percy, but he's playing," said Audrey, evidently having a lot of fun. Percy looked comically offended. "Don't give me that face, darling, you know you're terrible at it too."

Beginning to feel the pressure, Granger scanned the faces of her friends at the table. Harry and Ginny, obviously, seemed quite giddy with the prospect that she might be joining them for a match. But it was Weasley that made up her mind for her. When she turned to look at him, he let his hand gently drift to touch her arm and met her gaze with his soft blue eyes. "Play?" he said almost in a whisper.

"Alright, I'm in," she said, throwing her hands up in mock defeat, and the table broke out into a cheer. "But after dessert!"

"There's no way we're letting all this go to waste," Fred gave her a wink, grabbing a ridiculous amount of toffee from the middle platter.

The teams were drawn up over the last few crumbs of Molly's exquisite spiced cake: Percy, Audrey, Charlie, Ginny, and Harry would form one team, and Bill, Ron, Fred, George, and Granger would form the other, with Fleur and Victoire as an honorary part of the latter.

When the last few dredges of coffee were drained from their respective mugs (Hermione's from a wide yellow-and-black striped one with small bumblebee wings perched inconveniently, but quaintly, on the handle), they all rose from their seats with the speed only excitement can rally, and headed out to a grassy clearing behind the Burrow, with Molly yelling at their backs to _please_ keep their sweaters on or they'd catch a chill in the wintery night.

"You know the basic rules, I expect?" Weasley said to Granger as they trekked down the hill to the spot where the game was to occur.

Granger recalled, with some amusement, something Ginny had told her at her first-ever game. "It's just a bunch of men kicking a ball around, what else is there to know?"

"You've got the basics," Weasley smirked as the party came onto the clearing at last. "That's all you'll need when you join a Weasley match, anyway. All other rules pretty much go out the window."

And so it was: the Weasleys played savagely, recklessly, as if football was nothing but a game to have the most terrific fun with. With Fleur and Victoire placed at the goal (which was just Bill's two shoes, with the socks still in them, placed a few feet apart) at the little girl's insistence, Fred and George were ruthless defenders, charging at anyone who dared bring the ball near them and under the war cry of "For Victooooire!". Even Audrey, who proved to be particularly dexterous a forward, went down when George went straight at her to kick the ball from her feet. Percy ran faster than anyone had ever seen him to her side, but he needn't worry: Audrey wasn't crying out in pain, but wheezing with laughter.

That seemed to be, Granger noticed, the general feel of the game: they were all bound to be spotted with bruises the next day, but the night rang out with a constant stream of laughter. Even she dared kick forth a few feeble balls from her position at midfield, earning general revelry from both sides despite their really not being worthy of much admiration.

She was getting the hang of it, she felt, and when Ginny darted agilely toward midfield, she chased toward her with the giddy speed of someone who doesn't quite know what they're doing but is loving every second anyway. She ran quickly, her shoes long discarded to a side of the clearing, feeling laughter spout from her mouth as her feet carried her, sure she would get her, sure she'd kick that ball from Ginny, she was almost there, they were almost touching—

_Whomp._

Something hit her from the side and she went down, with whoever had collided with her going down with her, rolling a few feet from where she'd bowled over with the momentum of the fall. When she stopped moving and open her eyes again, she was surprised to meet Weasley's: they were tangled together, with Weasley on top, a sweaty, panting mess.

"Can't you go three seconds without hurting me in some way, Weasley?" she nagged him, but her voice was happy. "You run into me because of that Frisbee, you hit me with that football—"

"I was aiming for Ginny," Weasley laughed, laughed openly, and then looked down at Granger, his chest still heaving, refusing to move from where they were so close. Her eyes locked with his, and they both held the shared stare, red in the face and still struggling to breathe.

That part of her, the one that had squirmed delightedly when watching Weasley move, rewoke in her, and wrung at the corner of her stomach with absolute pleasure at having him on top of her like this, imagining a different scenario, one off the grass, with less layers between them—

"Oi, get a room, the both of you!" Harry called out, and he and Ginny jogged over to pull Granger and Weasley apart and to their feet. They dusted themselves off, sneaking covert glances at each other, Granger keeping her head down to try to disguise how red those thoughts about Weasley had rendered her cheeks.

Throughout the rest of the game, they remained perhaps a little closer than football strategy might recommend, but both sensed something had changed. There had been a spark between them, rolling around together on the ground. Their eyes kept flickering toward one another, darting away with a coy smile whenever they met in the middle.

At last, they heard Molly call for them from the house, saying it was just a few minutes until the New Year, so they should all come back for the clock to strike midnight. The game was paused, at a healthy 2-2 tie (though Victoire insisted she'd never let a ball past her), and they headed back toward the house, still bubbling with laughter and sticky with sweat, trudging up the grassy hill back to the Burrow with their shoes in their hands. During the walk back, Granger and Weasley kept bumping into each other, whether by accident or intentionally neither could tell nor would they admit, but giving each other those flitting looks every time they felt their shoulders touch.

Back in the living room of the Burrow, everything was a flurry of movement, with the clock counting down scarcely six minutes to midnight and Molly scrambling to pour everyone a glass of champagne. When Victoire whined about why she didn't get one, Arthur merely brought back a carton of apple juice from the refrigerator and poured it into a spare flute, lighting Victoire's face back up and evoking a muttered promise from Fleur that she'd make sure her daughter didn't break the glass.

"Positions, everyone!" declared Molly when all the flutes were at last filled, whizzing around the table back to her spot by Arthur. Everyone took her lead and returned to their chairs, but stood up there rather than sitting back down. "Alright, then, everyone's got a glass?"

A murmur of assent rippled through the table, as everyone grabbed the stem of the glass as if to show they had it.

"Right, then, only two minutes to go," said Molly, who was red in the face despite having undergone no athletic exertion, but with the effort of hosting.

"We've all got someone to kiss, too?" Audrey piped up, looking lovingly at Percy, who flushed a bit and looked away.

"Not me," declared Charlie, coming back from the kitchen with a bowl of grapes. "A Spanish chick who's down at the Romania center with me told me about this tradition where they eat twelve grapes in the twelve seconds before midnight. It sounds hardcore. I said I'd try it."

Everyone else looked at their respective partners, some reaching out to hold their hands.

Fred and George looked around the table exaggeratedly, then looked back at each other and shrugged. "Guess we'll be each other's New Year's kiss," smirked George, met with the same reaction from Fred.

Granger's head pulled magnetically toward Weasley, and was unsurprised to find him already looking at her.

"So, we're doing this?" he said a little nervously, trying to laugh.

"I guess," she said in the same town, suddenly burningly aware of the slightest brush of his elbow against her upper arm.

"One minute!" said Molly cheerfully, and everyone set down their flutes on the table.

"We don't have to... if you don't want to," Weasley muttered, but Granger found herself unable to reply.

Did she want to? Did she want to kiss him? And if she did, did she want it to be like this— as they rang in the New Year, in front of his whole family, simply because they were the odd ones out?

There wasn't time to think, though, because Molly began counting down the seconds, leaving everyone to join in (except Charlie, who'd begun stuffing his face with grapes."

"Ten...! Nine...! Eight...!"

Weasley was looking at her, looking piercingly at her, and she thought she might just melt on the spot.

"Seven...! Six...!"

Did she or didn't she want to?

"Five...! Four...!"

She couldn't seem to look away from his lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss them, to press her own against them...

"Three...!"

Time was running out, she'd have to make up her mind soon–

"Two...!"

Oh, God, he was too close, dangerously close—

"One...!"

_Now or never, Hermione, what's it going to be—_

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Around the table, everyone pulled their partner into a sweet kiss, but Weasley and Granger remained apart, idle, just a few centimeters apart— far enough to make it inconsequential, but near enough to make it awkward.

 _So it didn't happen_ , Granger thought as she joined in the subsequent toast, clinking her flute animatedly against everyone else's. Weasley's ears, she noticed, were red at the top, as she had no doubt her cheeks would be too: that had been a close call, and she still hadn't made up her mind about whether she was entirely satisfied with the way it had gone.

She took a sip from her flute and shot a quick glance at Weasley, who just as quickly looked away.

Yes, something definitely had changed.

* * *

"Still up?"

Ron jumped a little, and straightened his back from where he was bent over picking up little scraps of paper left over from the New Year's poppers. The party had ended about an hour ago, and everyone had gone to bed at gradual intervals, Fleur and Victoire being the first to retreat upstairs and a slightly drunk Charlie being the last. Except for him, of course: he'd stayed behind to clean up the bits and pieces of rubbish left behind from the reveling, because, as much as he complained about his mum making him do chores, the last thing he'd want is for her to strain her back doing something he could very well manage.

And except for Granger, apparently, seeing as she was standing idly in the doorframe and had scared him half out of his wits with her unexpected interjection.

"I could say the same to you," he chuckled softly, tossing a handful of stray confetti into the medium black trash bag he was lugging around.

"I stuck around in the living room for a few minutes after Charlie went up. I wanted to finish reading a chapter of my book," she explained, because _of course_ Hermione Granger would lug a book around to a party. "And you?"

"Cleaning up," he said, crouching to reach under the table, the real shadow realm when it came to small droppings. "Don't want my mum to have to do it."

"Need a hand?" Granger said, already scrambling to crouch next to him.

"No, not really, but thank you. When you grow up in a house like this, cleaning becomes a sort of second nature."

He finished gathering what little scraps of paper were left under the tablecloth, and rose again, satisfied for the night: there seemed to be no popper remainders anywhere in sight around the dining room.

He swept the room looking for Granger, and found her standing at a corner of the living room, opposite the Christmas tree still flickering dimly with fairy lights. He walked over to her. "Looking at anything?"

"This record player," she said quietly, brushing a finger over the wood-finishing artifact on the table in the corner. "It's a real antique, you know. It's gorgeous."

"It was my great aunt's," Weasley explained, allowing his left hand to drift toward Granger's lower back. She didn't twitch. He allowed it to sit there. "It's old, sure, but it works just fine. Why replace what still works?"

"I like that thought," Granger said, still brushing a fascinated hand over the smooth surface of the player, her back tingling with the warmth she most definitely felt emanating from Weasley's hand. "A much better alternative to all our consumption. And it's a nice way to remind oneself of memories, too." She let her finger dally over the needle, bouncing it almost imperceptibly in place. She turned to Weasley: "Mind if we give it a go?"

"Be my guest," Weasley said, gesturing to a collection of records sitting primly in a small basket by the table's legs. Granger crouched before the basket and paged through the records, paying the album titles only a fleeting smidge of attention. Finally, her gaze lingered for more than a passing second over one of them, and Weasley knew that would be the one.

It was a blue and yellow record, with a vaguely floral motif in the middle, that Granger took out with the utmost precaution and with a look of utter awe. "Whose is this?" she whispered, still awestruck by the record.

Weasley didn't see what about the record had elicited this reaction from Granger, but he felt compelled to ask. "What is this, anyway?"

"It's _Liederkreis_ , a song cycle by Robert Schumann. It's a thing of singular beauty, but I've never heard it on vinyl. Whose is this?"

"Percy's, obviously," snorted Weasley. "None of us others listen to those things."

"You know, Ronald, you all tease Percy an awful lot, but he's actually a wonderful person," Granger shot him a stern look as she set the record down onto the player. "He just feels a little out of place, I'm sure. Now, shall we try this out?"

"You'll have to be careful not to wake the house," Weasley said, "though I expect that 'leather christ' thing won't make a lot of noise if it's like everything else you've ever played me."

"Don't be such a cynic, it doesn't suit you," she reprimanded him, setting the needle to a smaller groove nearer the center of the record. "This is the second song. _Mondnacht_ — 'moonlit night'. Have a listen, there's no one in their right mind wouldn't love this."

The record began spinning, and after an instant of silence, a few crystalline piano notes began to stream out. The volume was low enough so no one else would be woken, but so Weasley could hear every small nuance of the simple piano and the deep, rumbling voice that had begun to rise out with the piano.

"Funny, isn't it," Granger said, pulling him from his attentive listening. "How all of our moments seem to be punctuated by a record player."

"Not the pub," said Weasley, and she laughed, taking a step closer to him.

"No, I suppose not." She looked to the record player and, carefully not to throw the vinyl off its balance, gave it a gentle pat. "Tonks sure would love this, wouldn't she?"

"Oh, she's had her turn on it. Bill and Charlie went to school with her, we used to have her 'round here all the time. How d'you think Ginny and I know her so well?"

"That certainly explains it," said Granger with a smile. "And here I thought it was just your natural charisma that had won her over."

"Certainly not," Weasley laughed, a soft, airy laugh that died in his throat as soon as it'd come forth. "Wish it'd do the trick for you, though."

Granger caught the implication and chose not to reply, but blushed instead, fixating her gaze on the spinning record on the player. "You know, this piece is quite Romantic."

"What do you mean 'romantic'? What's the chap singing about?"

"No, I meant Romantic as in the artistic movement. Didn't you ever take your art history? A response to industrialization, a glorification of nature and the general human experience..." she stopped herself, before she could get on in a lecture. When she spoke next, she did it slowly, measuredly, as if testing out the very ground she was already treading on: "Though I suppose it could be romantic without the capital R, too."

Weasley looked straight at her, then, in the flickering light of the hearth's remaining embers, drawing shadows across her face with the same flow of hand as the singer's voice had. The voice climbed, swooped, dove, with the ever-constant piano in the background, and Weasley could feel himself falling into its enchantment— though whether it was the music or merely Granger that was bewitching him so, he couldn't tell.

Could be that it was two o'clock in the morning, certainly.

But something in Granger's eyes told him it wasn't so. She was looking at him with a tenderness she'd only graced him with at the pub, where she'd paid his intelligence a compliment, where she'd seemed genuinely drawn by him as he was. Her eyes were fluttery with the beginning hints of sleep, and the makeup on them was all smudged from the tussle out on the grassy clearing, but she was looking right at him, and it was as if her honey-brown eyes were melting into pools the more he looked at them. There was a small, asymmetric smile placed gently on her lips, and her head was tilted ever so slightly to the right.

"It's a shame we went without a New Year's kiss, isn't it?" Weasley whispered, anything to break the barrier of unsaid things quickly building between them.

"A shame," Granger answered with a breathy laugh. "Though I suppose that's never a tradition I followed, really. You know, strict parents."

"I wouldn't know," Weasley echoed her laugh, and felt his palms begin to glaze over with a sheen of sweat. "Almost the youngest of seven, your parents pretty much leave you to it by the time they're through with all the rest."

She laughed, again, and stepped closer to him, close enough their thighs were brushing, close enough he could've reached out and wrap an arm around her waist if he'd wanted to.

_He wanted to._

"You're lucky to have a family like this one," she said, and inched —again!— infinitesimally closer. "But then, again, I daresay they're lucky to have you."

What was she implying? Why did she have to speak in riddles, even now? 

The piano gained in pitch and intensity, the singer's voice buoying in an ocean of notes, and he found himself short of breath, short of words, short of anything but an awareness of how her hand had suddenly found its way to his upper back.

She looked up at him again, those chocolate eyes he found it impossible not to get lost in, and placed her other hand on his shoulder. For an instant, Weasley was frozen: he didn't know what to do with this proximity, but every nerve in his body was crying out with her touch, and he thought he'd go mad if he couldn't do anything about it.

And then she leaned in and kissed him.

It was a sweet, chaste kiss, but one driven by a longstanding desire for their lips to finally meet, by the months of unconscious yearning both had spent in anticipation of this moment. She tasted like cinnamon, she decided, maybe the faintest trace of the apple cake, but it suited her. He didn't need to open his eyes: with his lips on hers, _finally_ , and his hand drifting to a spot at the small of her back, all he needed were taste and touch. He kissed back eagerly, but gently, as if he were somehow afraid if he pushed too hard the illusion would shatter.

Granger, at last, relished the feel of his lips on hers, the very lips she'd spent ten painful seconds wavering between kissing or not. She didn't have to regret anything now, though: she was kissing him now, his taste carrying salty traces from what she could only assume were the remainders of their football perspiration, but most of all reminding her of licorice, the same he'd shared with her on the shuttle to the football match, the same he'd pulled out from the pantry after the midnight toast and settled contentedly on the couch to eat. But the taste didn't matter, she thought: all she could feel was the warmth coming from him, flowing from his lips to hers, thinking that finally — _finally_ — this was much better than anything she'd ever allowed her subconscious to imagine.

They held the kiss for what easily felt like a small eternity, until at last, just as the piano softened and the singer's voice faded, Granger pulled away, her eyes remaining closed for a fleeting second after the kiss had finished. Breathless, Weasley let his eyes draw open softly, his mouth still refusing to close, looking at Granger with a fixity he could only explain by the faithful thumping of his heart in his chest.

She withdrew her hands from his back and his shoulder, and gave him a soft, enigmatic smile. "Happy New Year, Ron," she whispered, and disappeared quietly up the stairs to Ginny's room, her feet barely making any noise on the creaky staircase.

Ron stood, dumbfounded, in the middle of the living room, as the last remaining embers withered into ashes, and tried not to think too much about how it was the first time she'd ever called him _Ron_. Not _Weasley_ , not _Ronald_ , _Ron._ He let his fingers brush up against where hers had been pressed only seconds ago, and refused to tear his gaze from where he'd seen her disappear up the stairs.

The piano faded into a sequence of soft, final chords. The song ended. The needle lifted, and the record spun aimlessly, losing momentum until at last it stopped, with nothing more to play. 

And still Ron stood there, tracing the remains of a kiss on his lips with his fingers and wishing, with more furor than he'd ever wished for anything, that she'd only let her lips linger on his for a few more instants of heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHH IT FINALLY HAPPENED!
> 
> Sorry for the delay in updates, but this is a chapter I've spent a long time looking forward to writing, and I wanted to make sure I got it just right. I hope that's the way it feels for anyone reading this, too. :)


	34. Chapter 34

The University was back, if not to a bustle, at least to a dynamic trickle, in the lingering calm of the first day of term after winter holidays. Students scuttled by like ants busily finding their way through the cobblestones that lined the University roads, as if they'd somehow forgotten the map of campus in their brief time away, but it wouldn't be long before familiarity returned to each one and the University's daily hubbub was back to normal.

Even the teashops, Granger thought, seemed somehow quieter. Though at Madam Puddifoot's, she couldn't exactly complain: the sickly pink establishment was usually brimming with lovey couples, and an afternoon tea experience could be spoiled by knowing the slurping sounds around you were not exactly being made by avid tea drinkers.

"Remind me why we're here again instead of the Three Broomsticks?" she asked Harry, who was sat across from her with a gigantic cup of coffee —almost the size of a bowl— in front of him.

"Because," he replied, happily ladling spoonful after spoonful of sugar into the massive cup, "this is the only place where the coffee is already sweet enough that I need only add three or so spoonfuls instead of the usual ten, which always gets me funny looks in any other place."

"Ginny's right: you should just straight-up drink syrup," she remarked, wrinkling her nose at the thought of sipping from Harry's cup. "Why d'you like it so sweet, anyway?"

"Force of habit," Harry shrugged, leaving the spoon on the plate under the cup and drinking from it. "I didn't get very many sweet things as a child, when I lived with my aunt and uncle, so I suppose I constantly overcompensate for that."

Granger looked away, a bit ashamed: it wasn't often Harry talked about his childhood, and in the context of what he might be implying —that his relatives did not exactly treat him as a child should be treated—, her question seemed insensitive. But, telling herself Harry would talk about it when he was ready, she decided not to press him and switched instead to the main reason why they'd met up here.

"So, Harry, switching gears to the project. You are actually an interesting case, since you studied _and_ teach both law and philosophy."

"Couldn't make up my mind," Harry smiled, without letting the cup down from where he cradled it in his hands. "I've always had a knack for defense– y'know, rhetorical strategies, and persuasive tactics, and blah, blah, blah, all that stuff. So I suppose it's always been something I'm good at. But philosophy..." He sighed, and placed the cup gently on the plate. "I suppose I can ascribe it to the fact that I had great mentors. D'you remember the Head of the University, before Shacklebolt?"

Granger nodded, reminding herself of a tall, wizened old man she'd been rather intimidated by in his time, but had also admired. "Dr. Dumbledore?"

"Yes, him. I knew him from before, y'know. A friend of my adoptive fathers— or an acquaintance, really, so he used to drop by all the time."

"Didn't you use to live with your aunt and uncle?" Granger butted in.

Harry looked back, perplexed. "Yes, but I moved in with my godfather, Sirius, and his husband, Remus, when I was twelve. They tracked me down. I was thrilled, obviously, and my uncle was happy to have me taken off his hands..."

A myriad of questions swirled around in Granger's mind, but she reminded herself of her oath: she wouldn't press until Harry told her more. She swallowed her curiosity, and motioned for him to continue with his story.

"As I was saying, he dropped by the house all the time. Both Sirius and Remus were lawyers, too: Sirius a barrister, Remus a solicitor. So obviously that honed my talent for defense without my even trying. But one time Professor Dumbledore stayed for dinner, when I was seventeen or so and convinced that I was going to study law only, and as it turns out he told me Remus had actually done his undergraduate degree in philosophy, not law. Obviously, I scoffed at it back then— having grown up between lawyers, convinced that that would be my path too, I couldn't for the life of me see its utility. But Dumbledore kept dropping by and kept pushing it until I caved and let him tell me more."

He paused, drank one long gulp from his coffee, as if bringing on a dramatic pause to usher in the next part of his story. "My eyes opened. Even more so when it turned out my mother" —Granger thought she heard his voice quaver slightly, and again stamped out her own curiosity— "had been a PPE undergrad, so she'd been his student too. And he told me about how philosophy was concerned with figuring out mankind, and what makes man _man_ , and where we come from and _why_. And _why_ was a question I'd been asking my whole life over, considering the childhood I had. I wanted to know more about who I was, and philosophy seemed like a good solution. Obviously, Remus was thrilled."

"So you chose a double degree?"

"Odd choice, right?, considering I was never that keen on school," Harry said with a smile. "But Dumbledore made it easy for me. I went to his office a few afternoons each week, and we'd have tea and talk about what I was learning. Despite being the Head, he still taught at the Faculty of Philosophy, so I had him for a teacher in a few classes. He didn't let me slack, too, which I was glad for. And that's how it was; I don't think I would've done it if it hadn't been for him."

He let a bittersweet smile trace across his lips, and Granger caught on to it as his eyes glanced somewhere off into the distance.

"Do you miss him?" she asked softly.

"A lot," Harry said, a bit choked up. "It was a bit of a shock when he died just a few months before I got my degrees. But I think he would've been proud to see me where I am right now. Everyone thought I'd be a barrister, Sirius included, but Dumbledore showed me just what a difference a good teacher can make in your life. Hence why I teach."

"That's why you teach _law?"_

"Well, of course, I'm not just gonna drop something I'm this good at," Harry winked. "It's sort of my moral responsibility to put my _many, many talents_ to good use and help other kids do some good with that."

"I love that even your sarcasm assumes lawyers are out there doing good, and aren't inherently morally ambiguous creatures."

"See, _now_ you're getting into philosophy," he winked again, and took another long drink from his cup.

"Which brings me, actually, to my next question..." Granger said, and checked to see whether her handy tape recorder was still chugging along nicely. "Do you find there are any similarities between philosophy and law, as abstract disciplines? Or any connection that draws you to both?"

Harry thought about it for a few seconds, his silence illustrated by the recorder's faithful blinking, allowing his cup to dally in his hands as he rolled the question over in his mind. "I've never thought about it before," he said finally, softly, and Granger leaned forward to catch the full extent of his answer. "I suppose I'd have to answer that they both are concerned with what man _does_. Except philosophy is concerned with _why_ man does it, and the law is concerned with _what_ man can or can't do. I suppose that, in a way, culminates in that both disciplines set an ideal of man. The law sets an ideal of how the ideal man should or shouldn't behave, and philosophy presents an ideal model of man whose behavior is attributed to a set of abstract principles— philosophy's about finding those principles, I guess. So I would say the similarity lies in that both disciplines are concerned with the essence of man— law with the _what_ , and philosophy with the _why_."

Granger took a second to let it seep in, then broke out into a grin. "That was surprisingly eloquent."

Harry returned the grin. "I'm choosing to take that as a compliment. Can you tell I was Dumbledore's mentee?"

"I think this is as good as any a place to stop it," decreed Granger, reaching for the recorder to switch it off. "You've given me more than enough material to go off of in a lot of depth."

"Awesome," said Harry, the boyish demeanor returning to the momentarily-serious academic. "And now, _I_ interview you."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, c'mon," he said, and the grin got even wider. "Ron? The Burrow? New Year's?"

Granger sputtered on her tea, and coughed twice. "Excuse me?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Ron's my best mate too, remember? He tells me stuff. And, considering you were gone before breakfast, I didn't exactly get to hear _your_ side of the story."

Granger cleared her throat, trying to extinguish the furious red flooding her cheeks. "Well, what is there to say? We stayed behind, he was cleaning up, we put on one of Percy's records, and we—" her words hitched in her throat with the memory of what she was describing. "We kissed."

"Finally!" cried Harry, obviously elated. "I wasn't gonna say it, but it took the two of you long enough."

"Trust me, I know."

"So what's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"With you and Ron?"

"Oh," said Granger, looking down at her teacup. "Well, I don't exactly know. We haven't really talked about it."

"Really? We've been back on campus three days already, and you haven't found the time?"

"I haven't really... talked to him, for the rest of the holiday or since we came back."

Harry groaned and buried his face momentarily in his hands. "This is the problem with both of you. You both have these _really intense_ feelings, but you both refuse to talk about them."

"Well, it's not exactly easy, is it?" Granger said. "I have no idea what I'm doing, and that terrifies me."

"You shouldn't be terrified," Harry said, more softly, and reached to place his hand on hers gently. "Ron is absolutely smitten with you, Hermione. I know it might embarrass you to hear it, but it's true. He's head over heels. And I think you are too, even if you haven't admitted it to yourself. And if you two love each other that much, even if you haven't realized it, it shouldn't be terrifying, it should be exciting."

"But I don't know—" Granger started, and again found her breath catching in her throat. "I don't know how to do any of this. Harry, you... you're dating Ginny. And you guys are great together. How do you make it work?"

Harry was pleasantly surprised for an instant: if Hermione Granger was not only opening up, but asking for help, he may just be getting through to her. And he was proud of her for doing so. "It helps that Ginny and I are so alike. We have a lot in common, and we've known each other for ages. She's my best friend, and dating your best friend is awesome. But as to the nitty-gritty, as to how we make it work..." He took another sip of his cup and looked into the distance, adopting the same pensive expression as he had when Granger had posed the question about his scholarship. "Mostly, it's communication. We talk. If we're feeling something, we tell the other; if something's bothering us, we bring it up; if we have a suggestion for how to make _us_ better, we put it on the table. We fight, obviously, but all good couples do. The difference is that we don't fight against each other: it's _us_ against the problem. That's something you and Ron would do well to remember."

"Because of the whole Lavender fiasco," Granger sighed. "Rather than talk, we took it out on each other."

" _Exactly_. And that's exactly what you _shouldn't_ do. You and Ron bicker a lot, and that's just how you roll, but there has to be some serious communication under all that bickering if things are gonna work out."

"We do bicker," muttered Granger, smiling to herself a little at the distinctiveness of that interaction.

"But I think, if you want my honest advice, good relationships are based on authenticity. There were a ton of other girls in secondary school, sure, but Ginny was special because she made me feel like _me_. And she didn't need me to be anything other than purely myself. She didn't expect me to change for her or to fit her ideal, but chose to love me as I was, knowing I'd do the same. Love, ultimately, is a bit of a choice. But if you're making that choice, it'd better be honest."

Granger stayed quiet for a moment or two. "And you're sure Dumbledore didn't reincarnate in you when he passed?"

Harry laughed: "I'm not usually this sagelike. It's just something I've had years to give thought to, and of course, Sirius and Remus have chipped in at a few points. But that's my two cents on it." He placed his hand on hers again, and looked her straight in the eye. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Please," Granger said, a little disconcerted as to what could possibly be more honest than this.

"You're miles ahead already. You're not Lavender. But please don't be. As I said, Ron is smitten with you— please take care of him. He hasn't ever known anything other than all Lavender put him through; that's his story to tell, but I'll tell you it wasn't nice. He deserves a softer, gentler love. A genuine one. Without insecurities. He deserves to be loved as he is. Please, just—" and now it was his words that were trapped in his throat, "—I know I have no right to butt in like this, but just take care of him, will you? He's my best friend. I think he deserves better than constant hurt."

Granger smiled softly, and placed her other hand on top of Harry's. "He does. And I promise, I may not know where this is heading, but I'll never be out to hurt him."

"Do I have your word on that?"

"You do."

"Good, because if I ever hear reports of another cup of boiling chamomile tea—"

"Oh, God, is no one ever going to let that go?"

"You sort of brought it on yourself," said Harry with a laugh, clearly showing he was kidding and not out to guilt trip Granger. "And don't worry. I'll have the same talk with him. If he hurts you, I've got your back as well."

"Never considered a career in insurance, did you?"

"No, but as should be clear by now, defense is in my nature. And I love my friends."

They both held their mutual smiles, as if strung together by a connective string, and pressed their hands together in reassuring support before breaking apart.

Harry's pulled his gaze suddenly toward the store window, looking out toward Hogsmeade Lane, and Granger followed. She saw, immediately, what had caught his attention. Behind the window, looking into the shop and with the air of a man who'd been caught doing something he'd rather have kept hidden, was Weasley, frozen in place.

To play off the awkwardness of having been seen, he gave a little faltering wave to Harry and Granger, who both waved back a bit more confidently.

"Well?" Harry said, turning to Granger."

"Well what?"

"It's not me he's here for," Harry smirked. Throwing his head slightly backward, he gestured toward the door. "C'mon, go talk to him. I'll cover the bill."

"You're an angel," Granger said, squeezing his shoulder as she left the shop and ventured out of the door.

She couldn't recall her heart beating so strongly in a walk as slow as this, not ever before. She hadn't seen Weasley for about two weeks now, since she'd left the Burrow early in the morning to catch a train back, leaving only a neatly signed, handwritten note thanking the Weasleys for a lovely evening. She'd snuck out without disturbing Ginny (and Harry, who'd let himself into their room and Ginny's bed during the night, and was snoring happily with an arm draped round Ginny's midriff), and made her way down the stairs as noiselessly as she'd climbed them the night before. As she exited, she couldn't help thinking whether she should've peered into Weasley's room. She didn't know where it was, but his loud snoring would've been able to easily guide her there. _But for what?_ she'd thought, shaking the thought from her head. _To say goodbye? To wake him up, and then what? Kiss him again?_

 _The kiss_. It had lived consistently in her mind at every idle moment it wasn't occupied with something else, and even pushed in when her mind was in other things. It felt surreal enough, like all things done at wee hours of the morning, to have been only a dream, but she had a perfect memory of the feel of Weasley's lips against hers. That might have been a reason she hadn't talked to Weasley since: she hadn't actively avoided him, but she hadn't exactly sought him out either.

Well, anyway, here he was now. Just around the corner, walking toward her at the same pace. The time to stop thinking about it and face it was now, and it was rushing at her fast.

She suddenly found herself face to face with him. "Hi," they both let out in a breath at the same time, then stepped back self-consciously: the last time they'd been this close had culminated in... well, in what neither of them could stop thinking about but would hardly admit.

"Thought I'd made a fool of myself," Weasley laughed nervously, still refusing to look Granger straight in the eyes. "Standing at the window like an idiot— I don't know what I expected to come of it."

"Yet here I am."

"Yes, yet here you are."

They held a tense silence for a few long-drawn seconds, both refusing to look fully at one another and instead darting their gaze back and forth, so quick they could sneak glances but that it wouldn't be defensible to say they'd been _looking_. At last, Weasley cleared his throat.

"So I suppose this changes nothing." He looked at her now, for a second or two, with pained eyes, before he tore his gaze away again. "We pretend it never happened, or at least we never talk about it, and—"

Certainly, that would be the more comfortable option, Granger thought, but she remembered what Harry had said. They had to talk about things. And, after New Year's, she'd realized she cared about Weasley enough to want to talk things through with him. It was the only way to move forth with _them_ , after all, and she was beginning to realize that ' _us_ ' may be a thing she wanted.

"No," she cut him off, looking into his eyes with such speed it was almost frightening. "No, let's talk about it. Things _have_ changed."

Weasley looked stunned, but his muscles released a bit of the tension they had accumulated. "They certainly have. And are you... are you happy, with them changing?"

Now it was Granger who reached out for his hand, but instead of just grabbing it, like closing down a claw upon it, she interlaced her fingers with his, the first she'd ever done that. He seemed surprised, and she felt his hand stiffen briefly, before he allowed his own fingers to tangle with hers as well.

"Yes, I am," she declared, her eyes holding his, her lips drawn in a smile. "Very happy, actually."

Weasley grinned, his eyes ablaze, his hand squeezing tighter around hers. He sighed with relief: "Oh, good, because I am— I am, too. Now, do you want to...?" His gaze trailed over to the row of restaurants lining Hogsmeade Lane, and Granger caught his drift immediately.

"To talk about it?" she offered, still smiling, and he laughed with less restraint.

"Yes, I s'pose. To talk about it."

She gave his hand another reassuring squeeze, and without letting go, both basking in the novelty of something as simple as holding hands shamelessly, both knowing it meant something entirely bigger than every time Weasley had momentarily reached for hers, they walked side by side toward any place with a large window and comfortable chairs, somewhere they could spend hours making light of their new reality.

Harry watched them disappear, peering through the window. He shook his head mirthfully, drained the last few drops from his cup, and allowed himself a monosyllabic chuckle. "Dorks."


	35. Chapter 35

The meeting had gone well, she thought: Shacklebolt and the University's Research Board had held an audience to determine whether to continue holding the funding for the Celtic scroll decodification project, considering it was at a standstill. Granger knew it was more a formality than anything, and though it had been on her mind all the week prior, she wasn't worried: she knew the research was good enough not to be discontinued, and that perhaps the budget would be whittled down some to adjust for the new situation, but she wouldn't lose it. Which was fine with her, really: she wouldn't hoard funding from other more currently-productive venues, and it meant she needn't feel guilty about the publicity project, since doing it no longer meant allowing a large sum to go unused. She had a guarantee, after all, that she'd eventually be back working on something purely linguistic, and that was enough for her to know.

Altogether, it had gone just as she predicted, since the Board members were amenable to her and her work and happy to keep the project, even if it meant sidelining it for a while. But all throughout the meeting and even now, as she stepped outside of the executive building onto Hogsmeade Lane, she hadn't been able to shake a strange feeling that she'd forgotten something— and she hated when a thought slipped her iron grasp. She shrugged: it would do no good to worry about it for too long, anyway. Brushing her hair out of her face and back into her trusty clip, she stepped out onto the Lane and started walking toward the Humanities courtyard.

"Granger!" a voice caught her like a messenger riding the wind, sneaking up on her from the back and tapping her twice on the shoulder. "Granger, turn around!"

Her eyes met a panting Weasley, clad in the scandalous gold goalie clothes, struggling to catch up to her and red in the face. "Granger, why didn't you come to the game?"

"The game?" she asked, before it hit her: so that's what she'd forgotten! "Oh, my god, Ron, I'm so sorry," she gasped, her hands flying to her face. "It totally slipped my mind, I was so busy with the funding audience, I forgot the times coincided, I'm sorry—"

"Really, don't worry," he put her at ease, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It was only the semifinals."

Her eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets: " _Only_ _the semifinals?!_ "

"Oh, relax, it was Beauxbatons. Easy game, nothing too interesting. We beat them without tiring ourselves out— which is just as well, because the final is in a week." He gave her a sharp, sudden look. "You'd better not miss that one."

"I would never!" she blurted clumsily, still staring wide-eyed at him.

"I should hope not," he laughed, and that finally relaxed her somewhat. "Because today I played incredibly well and all for nothing—"

"It wasn't _for nothing_ —"

"You weren't watching, were you?" he winked, and she couldn't resist a small, flattered smile. "How did the audience go, anyway?"

"Very well, actually," she sighed, relieved to be switching topics. "It was more a formality than anything, really. They'd never shut it down. All they said is they'd be reconsidering the budget until the scrolls are found, which I hope is soon."

A cloud crossed Weasley's face, and though he spoke in a peppy tone, his face displayed none the same emotion. "I hope so too."

Granger latched on immediately: "What is it?"

He refused to meet her gaze, and his tone turned so forcefully nonchalant that it came out hostile. "You really want to get back to that project, don't you?"

"Ahh, I see. Is this about the PR project?"

"What about it?"

"You think I'm only doing it as a substitute, right? That my heart's not really in it, and that I'll jump ship as soon as that last scroll is found?" His eyes dropped to the floor, and that told Granger she was right. "Because it's not true," she said softly, and now it was her hand that posed on his shoulder to give him reassurance. "It may have started that way, more of a favor to Shacklebolt than anything, but I've grown to love it. I really, truly have. It's been a lot of fun, and it's given me the pleasure of meeting some truly amazing people."

"I wonder who that could be," snorted Weasley, still looking down but a smile beginning to tweak at the corners of his mouth.

Tenderly, Granger took his chin in her fingers and lifted it slightly, enough so that he couldn't but look her in the eyes. "Trust me. I was even relieved when they said they'd dial back on the funding. It means I can use more of my time for the Uni Voices project without feeling guilty about it."

"Which means you can spend more time with me," smiled Weasley, now standing up straight and allowing an arm to snake around her waist.

"Just a side perk of the job," Granger smiled, setting both her hands on his chest, allowing each other a fleeting embrace before Weasley let go.

"Where are you headed?"

"Back to the Linguistics Fac," said Granger, her eyes involuntarily flicking in the direction of the Humanities Quad.

"For?"

"Well, I thought I'd sit down and plan out the next few weeks in terms of the project..." she said, but trailed off just as she'd done when she'd tried to go embroider rather than spend a night on the town with them. Plus, Weasley was piercing her through with the same stern look as he had that time.

"Quite the planner, are you?"

"Well, I'm a predictable girl," she said, but there was no pride in it. "I like knowing what's gonna happen and when."

"When was the last time you did something spontaneous?" he prompted her, his eyes glinting with the beginnings of an idea.

She recognized the spark in his eyes, and immediately sensed danger: "Ronald, what are we doing?"

"Just answer the question, Granger."

"Fine," she sighed. "I'm not too spontaneous."

"But you've got a free afternoon, haven't you? From the sound of it, your plans aren't exactly set in stone. So what d'you think we try to correct some of that monotony?"

"By doing what?"

His eyes, inadvertently, darted toward the river behind the first row of buildings by Hogsmeade Lane, and there Granger had her answer.

* * *

"Bet you'd never gone rowing, had you?" said Weasley cheerfully, drawing the oars in strong strokes through the water.

"Well, not on University grounds, not really."

"I don't believe you. You've been here since undergrad, and you've never once taken a boat out from the dock?"

"I'm not very adventurous, I keep telling you."

"Well, best be ready for an adventure later, because you're rowing us back. My arms are getting tired."

The boat made its way gently, as if perched atop the mild river current and allowing itself to be carried by it, and Weasley hardly needed to row to keep the little boat in movement. They'd rented out a rowboat for two for a couple of hours, which Weasley calculated would allow them to circle the University twice before they had to row back to dock, with a few stops along the way. He sat on the bow, legs astride, facing backward, the two oars slapping the water rhythmically as the small waves lapped at the hull. Granger sat nearer the stern, legs tucked under her, reclining against the built-in board she was supposed to be sitting on. Her hand was stationed above her brow, shielding her eyes from the sun to allow herself to look at Weasley for longer.

They rowed in lighthearted bickering for a while, trading quips with a distinct familiarity, before they left behind the more populated part of the river (littered with tourist punts, undergrads drinking beer in long canoes, and the occasional kayak shooting by) and rowed in unusual silence along a grassier landscape.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Weasley said, noticing Granger looking around her at the willows that bowed to let their leaves brush the river's surface and the delicate bluish flowers that sprouted on the bank. "I've been coming here since I was a second year, when I was allowed to lease out a boat on my own. I usually take a kayak, but these two-person rowers are great for when Harry and I wanna hang out out here. It's a good spot."

"Thank you for showing me," smiled Granger.

"This seems a good spot to stop," said Weasley, fixing his eyes on a clearing flanked by two willows a bit farther down the river, and he steered the rowboat close to the bank allowing the current to push them softly. When they arrived at the edge, he seized a long, sturdy rope coiled under the bow seat, with a metal peg at its end. In a balancing act, his right leg ventured out of the boat and onto the soft grass so he had one foot in the hull, the other on the Earth. With significant ease for someone in such a precarious stance, he bent over and stuck the peg squarely into the ground, hammering it with a closed fist to ensure it stayed, and then returned his right leg back to the boat.

"There," he declared, dusting off his hands. "Now we're moored."

They sat in silence for an instant or two, just looking around them. The rowboat had come to be parked in the outreach of the shade of a willow, meaning the leaves tickled the stern nicely, so if Granger were to lean back a bit more she'd be met with a mouthful of green. Still, a few beams of sunlight streamed through the gaps in between the foliage, painting parts of Weasley's face a delicate gold.

"I did need a bit of a getaway," Granger spoke up.

Weasley hopped off the bow and sat opposite her, reclining against the other bench, with their feet fitted nicely in a row. "I told you. And some spontaneity never hurts."

"It certainly does not," she smiled, and again allowed her gaze to go on a tour of their surroundings. "Especially not when it's a place this beautiful."

"Granted, you probably thought I was going to take you whitewater rafting when I said we were up for an adventure. But sometimes spontaneity doesn't mean adrenaline: sometimes it just means stepping out of the rut."

"I'm glad we did," said Granger, and they both reached for each other's hand at the same time.

Only with their fingers intertwined did they come to realize that, for the first time since New Year's, they were well and truly alone. Alone, bobbing pleasantly aboard a worn white rowboat, secluded between willow branches in a clearing where the only company was the wind rippling through the longer blades of grass and limber reeds. It was the type of aloneness, Granger thought, that was especially conducive to intimacy.

"Tell me about your family," she said suddenly.

"What about them?" Weasley said, slouching backward and placing his legs along either side of Granger's body. "You've met them already."

"Yeah, but I never got to hear about them from you, which usually comes before," Granger replied, rolling out her legs so they stretched and her feet, the shoes long discarded in a cranny of the rowboat, settled along each side of Weasley's hips. "We're doing it all backwards, right? Usually, you meet the family _after_ you've heard about them, and you hear about them _after_ you've started..."

Weasley completed the sentence: "...dating?"

Granger blushed: "Is that what...?"

"Not necessarily," said Weasley hurriedly. "But we don't have to worry about it now, really. It's a sunny day and I'm on a rowboat with a pretty girl, who's just asked me to tell her about my family."

"So you will?"

"Only if you do, too."

"It's a deal."

"Alright, then," started Weasley, exhaling deeply and reclining further until his head almost rested on the bench. He folded his hands neatly over his chest and spoke with eyes closed. "Mum and dad were high school sweethearts. They say they always knew, about one another. Which means they married pretty young, and had Bill not long after. Then they just started putting us out like rabbits. Charlie, Percy, Fred and George, me, and then Ginny. By the end, raising a child must've been as easy as batting an eye for mum."

"Was it tough, having that many brothers?" Granger asked, her elbow settling on the bench behind her, angling her differently but without taking her eyes off Weasley.

"It was a bit harder when I was in school. Bill, Charlie, and Percy were always top of the class; then Fred and George were absolute mayhem no matter how you put them. So by the time I was sat at a desk, my teachers were on tenterhooks as to what to expect me to turn out like: either another boy genius or a third ball of chaos. Like a tug of war between two totally different ends of the spectrum."

"And what did it turn out to be?"

"A healthy middle," said Weasley, a smile gently poking through his lips. "I was smart, alright, and I loved learning, hence why I'm on my way to a PhD now. The only trouble is that I've never been known to be anything other than a rampant mess."

"Not much has changed, then," smirked Granger, picturing Weasley's piling workstation at the lab.

"I suppose not," Weasley said, opening his eyes a bit so a drop of blue got through to Granger, accentuating his lingering smile. "It got better once I got to uni, though. Everyone went on their different paths, so there was less pressure on me to tread the same one. Bill studied history and anthropology and then specialized in archaeology, Charlie went for zoology, Percy did accounting or actuarial sciences or something number-y that was always gonna stick him in an office job, and Fred and George did business management and left to set up the joke shop right after their Bachelor's. And now there's me, doing Physics, and Ginny with Gender Studies and now Stats."

"Seems like two very different branches, though I've never asked her why."

"She says she might like to be a journalist, eventually," Weasley explained. "She wants to write either about football or women's issues, which yet again goes to show the duality. But she says she needs to know stats to make her writing have reliability."

"Then why didn't she pick journalism to study?"

"Beats me," shrugged Weasley, his back shifting against the bench. "But you know Ginny. I think she _knows_ she can write, she just wants to have the credentials to prove she knows _what_ it is she's writing about."

"Which I suppose captaining the women's football team also helps with."

"It's firsthand experience, isn't it?"

"Sure is," Granger agreed. "How did your parents manage to put seven children through more than one university degree? Mine only helped with one, and they made it sound like I was draining their pockets."

"They've always had a university fund," Weasley smiled warmly. "It obviously didn't cover one degree, let alone seven, but my brothers worked all through their undergrad years and picked up scholarships here and there. Even with all that, Ginny and I never thought there'd be enough left over for us. But it was the same story, ultimately. And then after the Bachelors', we all sort of subsisted off research grants."

"The beauties of being a grad student," said Granger, and Weasley nodded contentedly.

"What about you, Granger? Any brothers or sisters?"

"Quite the opposite to you, actually. I'm an only child."

"That explains the attitude."

Granger administered a mild kick at his side with one of her feet, which made him cry out indignantly but in laughter, not pain.

"Well, it's not for _you_ to say it, but I did grow up quite snobbish. Only child of two dentists, so we obviously had enough to get by and then some."

"You don't sound too fond of your parents."

"No, I am, it's just..." she sighed. "I've never known anything but high expectations, really, which I think comes as no surprise. Always top of the class, and teachers saying I was brilliant, and excelling at everything... I suppose I spent most of my childhood trying to please them, more than anything else. And I know they love me, they truly do, and I do as well, but I think they felt like they had to _succeed_ at raising me in the same way one succeeds at a school assignment."

"Sounds quite lonely," said Weasley softly, sitting more upright now and his eyes fully open.

"It wasn't, not really," Granger brushed it off. "At least if it was I got used to it. I took a book everywhere with me, to every dinner party I was paraded at and every event where all the adults complimented my parents on what a sweet little girl they had, and that was a sort of company in its own way. Just me and my books. I guess that's where my love of reading comes from, and my love of words."

"The origins of the linguist," said Weasley through a slanting smile.

"My dad almost had a heart attack when I told him I wasn't going to study medicine," laughed Granger. "He said I'd starve or end up as an English teacher in some grammar school."

"But he can't seriously _not_ be proud of you when you got your PhD so young and you're top of the field at one of the leading universities in the country."

"No, he _is_ proud. He learned to be with time, anyway. He's made his peace with it, even if he still doesn't understand what exactly it is I do. And anyway, he can still tell people his daughter's a doctor, just not what kind of doctor."

She gave Weasley a smile that carried with it the order not to pity her, and Weasley obliged, merely smiling back.

"So Dr. Granger is the child of Dr. and Dr. Granger, then. Makes it weird to call you by your last name."

"Well, only a handful call me Hermione, really."

"Why 'Granger'?" he asked, his memory alight with remembering a bushy-haired first-year reading under a tree, formally sticking out her hand and leading with her last name before the first.

"I don't know," she said sheepishly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "A bit of a shell, I suppose. I thought it made me sound grown-up, less vulnerable. That it might make people respect me more. I saw my parents It was a bit of the confidence I needed at that time."

"Opposites, again," muttered Weasley. "I've never led with my last name— probably because there'd been five Weasleys before me, and I wanted to beat myself my own path. And if people call you by your nickname, it's a bit friendlier from the start. They feel they can joke with you, like you trust them already, just because you've insisted they call you Ron. Sure, it gets you less 'authority', since everyone views you as a chum, but at least it gets you more warmth. You're the only person who's ever called me Weasley, actually."

"Not anymore, right? Not since New Year's, anyway," she said, and they both flushed tamely remembering the context of that switch in names.

Lost in thought, they both idled by sweeping the landscape with their eyes yet again: the riverbank had enough beauty to look over in several sittings, and it didn't get old to try to pick out new details in between all that grass. It was winter, so it was surprising that it was still that long and green, but the warmth of the past few weeks had thawed out the vegetation sufficiently to give them a nice view even if the willows were a bit limper that they would be come summertime.

The sun was going down now, the departing light ushering in cooler drafts of wind as it left.

"Shame we didn't bring anything to drink," Granger said as she rubbed her hands together. "A thermos of hot chocolate, or something, would've done nicely between the two of us."

"Are you cold, Granger?" Weasley asked amusedly.

"Not cold," Granger said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "Just... chilly."

"I suppose this is where I gallantly give you my coat."

"I wouldn't accept it."

"Well, then," said Weasley in a lower voice, leaning forward from where he'd been reclining. "I guess we can always resort to alternate ways to keep warm."

He dropped onto his hands and knees, closer to Granger, and leaned forward to kiss her. She responded immediately, tilting her head to fit better with his and letting her hands, with their icy fingertips, go up to his cheeks. They kissed with more familiarity, knowing their way around each other better now thanks to New Year's, with the comfort of a kiss well shared.

It wasn't long before it intensified, and Weasley dropped down to sit on the hull, pulling Granger onto his lap with her legs draped around his middle. Eyes closed, they sought each other out, Weasley's hands clasped firmly around her back and Granger's own still clasped on Weasley's cheeks, gently pulling his face closer to hers, preventing him from breaking away. Weasley opened his mouth a bit further and allowed his tongue to slip gently between Granger's lips. She was taken by surprise for a fleeting instant before she responded in kind, allowing her own tongue to play around his and pulling him even closer, as if there still remained space between their lips they had to eradicate. They kissed hungrily, ardently, each trying to pull the other closer in a furor to kiss even deeper.

Granger could feel the warmth of his thighs under hers, and Weasley was vaguely aware of her breast pressed at the base of his neck; to the both of them, to feel the warmth coming from each other's bodies, flowing between them and mixing into one when they met in the middle, was every surge of heat they could possibly need. They squeezed, grabbed at anything, moved their lips to adjust them, kissed deeper, anything to try to fit together like puzzle pieces. Simply put, neither could get enough: it had been a long few months of yearning, for the both of them, and it was almost too good to believe that they were finally consummating it, as if every second spent coming up for air instead of kissing and every millimeter of space between them was a wasted opportunity.

Finally, just as Weasley was beginning to tug at the hem of Granger's blouse, a stronger gust of wind rocked the rowboat, and they broke away to steady it: the cold water was very well when it had a hull of distance with them, but if they fell into it, they'd have to shiver all the way to the dock.

"We should get back now," Granger suggested, her cheeks still burning with the remains of his touch.

"Good idea," Weasley said, and perched himself back at the bow. He yanked at the rope to disinter the peg and nicely coiled it back into the boat, then grabbing the oars and sinking them into the water.

"What about making me row back?" said Granger as the boat sprang into movement.

"I've had a better idea," Weasley said, rowing at a faster pace to beat sundown back to the dock. "In a few months, when it's springtime and the water's warmer, I'll bring you back out here and make no effort to stop it when the boat starts rocking. In fact, I think I might actually rock it myself."

"You're a fright," chastised Granger, swiping at him with her shoe as she began to put it back on. "You'd put me through the trauma of falling of a boat, into a river..."

"Payback for the tea," Weasley winked, but it was with such gentleness that Granger perceived all was forgiven. "And you don't know. Maybe I just want to get you wet."

She looked away, abashed at the innuendo. "Pervert."

"You'd look good, Granger, even with your clothes all stuck to you."

"Well, what about you?" she challenged him, turning her nose up in playful defiance. "Obviously, if I'm going down, you're coming down with me."

"Oh, I've had my far share of incidents on these waters. And besides, I can assure you that I look absolutely amazing in wet clothes."

"Pervert," Granger repeated with a smirk, and Weasley returned the sentiment with a customary wink.


	36. Chapter 36

"This does get less intimidating the more you come," remarked Granger, as she and Ginny made their way to the front row seats they were guaranteed thanks to Ginny's captaincy.

"And I bet you're enjoying it a lot more now," Ginny replied with a smile, squeezing past a couple of her teammates to get to their seats.

It was the day of the final for the men's soccer team, and the whole football pitch was alive: the University had had to bring in several more sets of risers to accommodate onlookers, and even then, there were still some black-and-gold-painted bystanders to the side who had in all likelihood resolved to watch the game on their feet.

The whole women's team had come: it was the last game for the men, after all, and that didn't only mean the end of their season and the beginning of the women's (since they played during the spring semester), but there was also the feeling of team solidarity. Granger felt a bit like a mascot, if she'd had to put it some way: not really a part of either team, but always there to cheer on either. That's what Weasley had done, after all: turned her into an avid spectator. But she still hadn't managed to truly find proper clothes: everything in her closet was a bit too stiffy, though today she'd decided on a pair of tight black jeans and a lemon-colored long-sleeve top (not quite gold, but as close as she'd get to it).

As she and Ginny settled into their seats, Granger allowed her gaze to sweep the pitch. The men were running through their dance-like warmups, zigzagging around the field and stopping every few feet to run through a stretch or a brief strength drill, before pelting Weasley with practice shots they were all taking at the goal, both to practice their shooting and for him to practice his keeping. Coach Hooch and the overexcitable Oliver Wood, right by her side, stood watching confidently from the bench, with the kind of nervous excitement that always hung in the air before a match. Lee Jordan was back, too, with a little boy that looked a lot like him (so Granger could only suppose that was his kid) tugging at his trouser leg until Lee hoisted him up on his shoulders so he could better watch the players warm up.

"In good shape, aren't they?" Ginny said, elbowing Granger gently. "They're still in a good spell over the Beauxbatons win. It's showing in their playing, and I hope they'll keep it up, because if they bring..."

Something caught Ginny's eye at the far end of the field, where Granger noticed the Durmstrang players had begun to trickle in, and she trailed off. Granger asked her what she meant by Durmstrang bringing _something_ , but right as if on cue, Ginny muttered with narrowed eyes: "They _did_ bring him."

"Who?" said Granger, unable to pick any new faces between the football players she'd only ever seen once before.

Ginny pointed at a tall, lean player with dark, buzzcut hair and a curved nose; all the way from here, Granger thought, he looked to be brooding. "Krum," Ginny said blankly, putting a name to the face. "Oh, Jesus, this is everything I _didn't_ want."

"What's so special about him?" Granger said, trying to understand why exactly this hawkish player seemed to inspire such fear in Ginny (and, by the looks of the boys, who had slowed down their practice drills to swivel around and latch their gazes worriedly to him, in the men's team as well).

"He's only the best midfield in Durmstrang history. Harry idolizes him, but don't tell him I told you that."

"So why wasn't he here last time?"

"He's an international student, from Bulgaria. He didn't come to the Durmstrang game last term because he was getting his student visa sorted out, or something— Demelza has a cousin at Durmstrang, she told her about it. But make no mistake: the only reason that last game looked so easy was because Krum wasn't here. Durmstrang is definitely putting on a fight."

Krum scanned the bleachers through a frown, and Granger caught a hint of his dark, beady eyes when his gaze briefly locked on to her. He looked interesting enough, she thought, but he was definitely an omen of a difficult game for the University.

Her gaze switched over to the University side again, where she was surprised to see the men stripping off their black jerseys and rummaging in their duffel bags for the golden alternative.

"Why are they changing?" she asked Ginny.

"Well, they can't both play in black, can't they?" smirked Ginny, and only then did Granger notice that Durmstrang was, in fact, also clad in black, except the numbers on their uniforms were that same earthy red as their jerseys had been the last time Granger had seen them. That may explain the aura Krum seemed to exude, anyway. Ginny shook her head. "It's a low blow. The home team is supposed to wear their regular colors, which is gold-on-black, but of course Durmstrang would wanna put us through the motions of changing, to throw us off our pace."

"Why doesn't Durmstrang change?"

"It's a matter of courtesy toward the visiting team. We have to take the high road. And, besides, the Durmstrang coach —Karkaroff is his name— is a piece of work, to put it nicely. I don't blame Coach Hooch for not wanting to go to blows with him."

Granger spotted a tall, sallow man with a thin beard that curled at the end, bearing a nasty, twisted smile, whom she could only assume was Karkaroff.

"He looks more like some sort of evil wizard than a university football coach," she whispered to Ginny, who laughed.

"That's true. If Davies and Flint don't manage to score today, we'll know that it's because he's cast some sort of protective charm around the goal."

Just then, Weasley came running from the goal, his golden jersey off and in his hand and his chest bare. He was mouthing something Granger couldn't quite make out until he was close enough to speak normally.

"Wear it!" was all he could push out, holding the jersey out to Granger.

"Wear it?" she repeated dully, gingerly reaching out to let the tips of her fingers brush at the fabric.

"Granger, to put it the kindest I can, you are _not_ dressed appropriately, and if we win this game, I am _not_ celebrating by kissing a girl wearing something that looks like the label on a jar of lemon custard, no matter how pretty she is." She looked away with an abashed smile, and he took pleasure in it before waving the jersey frantically in her face again. "So? Wearing it or not? It's gotta be fast, because I have to get back there to put on the black jersey now the team's playing in gold —goalie's gotta stand out— and to keep training."

Ignoring Ginny's knowing smirk, Granger snatched the golden jersey out of Weasley's hand. "Fine, I'll wear it. But you best get back there, or you'll be missed."

"Splendid!" said Weasley, and looked positively radiant. Only a few steps back into the pitch, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. "And don't bother asking Ginny to cover up for you while you change, or anything. Whole team's familiar with what you look like when you take off your shirt."

"Oh, you—" Granger began, this time fully flushed red, but he'd already turned back laughing and was running to the bench to put on the black jersey. She noticed an amused smile playing at her lips.

"So," Ginny said, "need me to shield you or are we all to be treated to the Hermione Granger one-night striptease spectacular again?"

"Neither," Granger replied, putting on the jersey over her lemon top. Without taking it off, she wriggled her arms out of the long sleeves and through the top's neck, then shimmying to allow it to fall to her knees before stepping out of it. Now wearing only the jersey, she stuffed the still-warm top in her handbag as Ginny looked on in admiration.

"Flawless execution."

"Every girl has to know the take-off-a-shirt-under-another-shirt trick," Granger responded, and they both took their seats again.

Ginny let a few seconds of silence elapse before she spoke again. "So, wearing Ron's jersey now..."

"What about it?" Granger said, adjusting the jersey over herself in her seated position. It was much too big on her, but it looked baggy in a fashionable sense, and paired with the tight black jeans, the slimness of the trousers offset the jersey's overlargeness in a way that looked both trendy and intentional.

"Well, it's not exactly discrete, is it," Ginny pointed out, tugging at the fabric in the back, "when you're wearing a football jersey reading WEASLEY in big black letters in the back."

"But what would possibly necessitate discretion?"

"Are you dating?" Ginny put bluntly, refusing to go around in circles with Granger any longer. The question seemed to take Granger aback, which Ginny took as a good sign. "Because, this may be just me, but you don't usually just wear your _friend_ 's jersey right off his back at a football game he's playing."

Granger couldn't deny it: "No, I suppose you don't."

"So what's going on? Spill."

She may be Weasley's sister, but Granger felt she could confide in her: after all, Ginny was the first real friend she'd made this year, and she'd never been anything but kind to her. She sighed: "Well, it started at New Year's—"

"The post-clean-up living room kiss? I know about that already," Ginny cut her off, and smiled at Granger's perplexed expression. "You forget Harry can't keep his mouth shut sometimes."

"Well, I'll do a better job remembering it in the future," Granger smiled, not uncomfortable with Harry's sharing. "And then we didn't talk for a few days, but then we sorta ran into each other outside Madam Puddifoot's and we decided we were happy with... well, with being more than friends, anyway. And so we went to lunch together and talked about it, and we agreed to keep taking it slow— after the whole Lavender episode, we decided we weren't going to jump into anything. And last week, just after the Beauxbatons game, we went rowing and it was quite nice, actually."

"My experiences with Ron in a boat have been less than pleasant."

"Not the case for me. We talked about our families with one another, and then we kissed again."

"You kissed? And that was it?"

"Well, made out, more like," Granger admitted sheepishly, and Ginny broke out in a hoot that a laughing Granger tried to stifle.

"So we're making progress! When can we expect wedding bells?"

"Oh, come off it, Ginny, that is not even in the far-off reaches of the horizon right now."

"Well, but you're wearing his jersey, so that's a step in that direction," Ginny shot the jersey a glance, and Granger hurried to cross her arms over it. Wrapped in the swathes of dry-fit cloth, smelling lightly of Weasley —the same whiff she'd caught every time she'd leaned in to meet his lips— and with her arms embracing the fabric to her, she quite decided she liked it. She thought about what it might be like to do the same with other garments: maybe a suit jacket after a restaurant date, a sweatshirt when she came over to his flat, one of his tee-shirts if ever she spent the night... She stopped herself right there: she couldn't blame Ginny for getting ahead of herself when she was doing it too.

"We're not even properly dating yet," she told Ginny, meant more as a reminder for herself.

"Why not?"

The question stumped her. _Why not?_ "Well, I suppose I'm waiting for him to give me green light. After the Lavender business, I want him to be comfortable in it, not feel pushed into it."

"As if he weren't already stupid for you," Ginny snorted. "Believe me, Hermione, our mum could tell him tomorrow she'd arranged for him to marry you the next day and he'd be colored yellow."

Granger tried to resist the small skip of her heart at Ginny's words, and continued: "It's also just that it hasn't really come up."

"Well, it won't come up if you don't bring it up," Ginny chastised her. "Harry's right. For two people so smart, you and Ron sure do hate actually _talking_."

"We talk," Granger defended herself and Weasley. "We did over lunch the other day, too. And we did while on the river."

"I'm just teasing. I'm glad you're both opening up to each other. You both need it, and if you can give one another that, then all the better for you," said Ginny, and without giving Granger a chance to respond, fixated her glance on the football pitch. "Oh, look, it's starting!"

On the pitch, the referee blew his whistle once to signal the start of the game (and with it, the end of Granger and Ginny's heart-to-heart). To ensure a lack of bias, the university football league had sent a referee to watch over the final, meaning Coach Hooch could stay with her team for the day. As the teams took the field and lined up in a starting structure, Granger could feel the crowd collectively holding their breaths in anticipation as they hung in the pre-game limbo.

The referee blew his whistle once again, and they were off.

This game, Granger thought, felt different from all the other ones she'd previously attended. The air hummed with tension, and everyone hung on the edge of their seats. The stakes were unmistakably higher, and it showed no matter where she looked. The crowd bore none of their usual easygoing smiles, but rather their faces were lined with a look of hopeful anxiety, and the players were not executing any of their usually flamboyant moves, but were rather playing with a careful, focused determination. It felt like treading on eggshells, and like a cloud of caution was permeating the whole game.

"They're both playing defense," Ginny muttered, explaining the impasse that seemed to be configuring itself on the pitch. "It's normal for a final. They're measuring each other out, and no one wants to risk too much right now when there are still ninety minutes on the clock. It'll get interesting soon."

Ginny's prediction came true: in a sudden fit of daunt, Zacharias Smith received the ball from Ritchie Coote and dribbled along the side of the pitch past midfield. The strategy was clear: he didn't dare run through center, where Krum was stationed. But Krum was too fast: as if in a reflex, he dashed over and planted himself directly in front of Smith, who hesitated and lost the ball to a Durmstrang player, whose intent to run past the first line of defense was immediately clear. Harry rushed over from center field with the same speed and, in a fit of alarm, kicked the ball out of the pitch just to kick it from the Durmstrang player's reach.

"He's nervous," mumbled Ginny in between the collective groan from the crowd. "He can defend better, he's just on edge. He'll do better once we've scored a few possessions."

The University team continued attempting to get through Krum a few more times, each attempt frustrated in the same manner, until Coach Hooch called a timeout and each team jogged back to its bench.

"Probably strategizing how to get past Krum," Ginny explained. "It's strange, but Durmstrang seems to be sticking to defense."

"It's no wonder, when they know Krum is practically a wall at midfield," Granger commented, surprising herself with her sudden opinion on a sports strategy.

"That's what they're trying to solve right now, in all likelihood."

The timeout elapsed and, ushered in by another blow of the referee's whistle, the players made it back onto the field. Granger sensed something was different: now, as soon as Weasley put the ball back in play, it darted back and forth between the University players' legs, never staying with one player for more than a few seconds at a time. The strategy seemed to be working: the Durmstrang players kept running at full sprint back and forth only a few feet, and their erratic movements had begun to let on the confusion Coach Hooch had undoubtedly tried to produce.

When Smith received the ball, Granger held her breath: this was the moment of truth. Rather than dribble it along the sideline, as they'd tried to do a million times before, Smith feinted toward midfield before heading right, drawing Krum toward him and away from the center. Just as Krum approached, he launched a solid pass to Harry, who finally got the ball past midfield before shooting it to Pucey, where Dean had been the last time they'd played Durmstrang. Sensing Krum hot on his heels, Pucey wasted no time in sending the ball streaking to Montague, who almost immediately sent it over to Davies. Davies dribbled it a few feet and then, taking advantage of a gap between two very puzzled Durmstrang defenders, passed it straight to Flint, who already had his left leg —his kicking side— drawn back in preparation. As soon as the ball tapped his heel, Flint swung his left leg forward with full force and sank it neatly into the top left corner of the Durmstrang net.

 _Now_ the crowd roared: about twenty minutes in, to have a goal on the house's side was already a singular achievement. The goalie hadn't even seen it coming, and a few scattered defenders were still zigzagging around trying to make sense of the University's quick, all-over-the-place passes. Hooch's strategy had worked, but that meant Durmstrang now knew what to expect, so they had to stay nimble. Without celebrating, Flint relegated to the University team's side to support the defenders when the Durmstrang goalie kicked it over.

The ball volleyed above their heads and bounced once, twice, on the University's side, sending the midfield scrambling to try to gain possession of it. Harry, Granger thought, looked to be less nervous now: Ginny had been right, it had only been a matter of gaining some security. He was quick to kick it over to the Durmstrang side, but Krum was already expecting it. A struggle ensued at midfield, with a frustrated Smith and Pucey trying to kick it through the defense, the Durmstrang midfielders retaliating, and Harry and Krum keeping order for their respective teams.

Krum truly was a force to be reckoned with, thought Granger, watching him materialize in front of a far ball again and again as if teleporting. But Harry was a good match for him: his smaller frame allowed him more agility, and he kept intercepting Krum every time he looked dangerously close to making it through the University midfield. But his cleats betrayed him once, sending him stumbling, and Krum took the brief lag in movement as an opportunity to pass the ball over to the Durmstrang striker, a stocky man with a square build. The striker headed toward the goal, and Granger saw the defense scramble to meet him; however, at the last instant, he sent the ball over to the Durmstrang winger, who aimed directly for the net.

It was no use for the defenders to try to reassemble themselves as any sort of opposition to the winger: they'd all fallen for the striker's trap, and they wouldn't get there in time. But Weasley was ready. He faced the winger defiantly, holding his hands out beside his body, knees bent in preparation for any necessary jump.

The winger angled his shot at the far post of the goal, and Granger's heart narrowly dropped at the thought that _he's not gonna make it, he's not gonna make it_ — before Weasley, gloriously, leaped toward the ball and took it directly to the chest, embracing it firmly in his arms and bowling over to the floor. That might leave a mark, sure, but at least it was still 1-0 for the University.

The crowd came alive again, chanting Weasley's name over and over as he released the ball and kicked it over to Sloper. Granger felt a few looks on top of her, no doubt due to the very name of the goalie emblazoned on the back of the jersey she was wearing. She could feel the nameless eyes burning with questions: was she his girlfriend? Was she just an overeager fan? Was that... Hermione Granger? And did people like Hermione Granger really date football players? She didn't feel embarrassed really— she was surprised to feel a surge of pride straighten her spine and tilt her chin up, placing the name WEASLEY in full view of anyone who cared to gape at it. _And what about it?_ she thought to herself, a smile playing at her lips. She might not be Weasley's girlfriend, really, but something about being here to watch him perform those brilliant saves with his name across her back made her want to play the part.

As if spurred by Weasley's save, Durmstrang intensified its offense, bringing their midfielders past the line into the University's side to tag-team University defenders to leave their striker uncovered. Granger felt bad for poor Harry, who had run back as soon as he'd deciphered Durmstrang's strategy to try to be of some support, but had only ended up in a man-to-man marking with Krum. The maneuver had left the goal uncovered and the Durmstrang striker and forward free to shoot. With only Weasley to stop the ball from going in the net, the striker engineered a forceful kick that Weasley could do nothing but put his hands in front of. The ball bounced off his gloves, allowing the winger to swoop in, unseen, and rebound it into the net.

It was the Durmstrang bench's turn now to cheer, as their players in black high-fived each other and smugly ran back to their side of the field.

"That was a stellar play," Ginny begrudgingly admitted as the referee's whistle signaled the end of the first half.

All in all, though the tension of high stakes had returned, 1-1 was a healthy score to reach the middle of a game with.

Ginny seemed to think so too: she sounded positively relieved. "I'm just glad we're not down by two or something," she said to herself. "Now we've just gotta push."

Granger nodded in serious agreement, and the linguist at the back of her mind remarked on the usage of the word 'we' in this context. _We_. Two words that encompassed everyone: the University players, Coach Hooch and Oliver Wood on the bench, and every single black-and-gold-clad onlooker on the bleachers. It was a uniting force, alright, and she'd do good to make a note on it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Granger," an unpleasant voice drawled at her back, and she and Ginny swiveled around to see from whom it had come. McLaggen, a few rows behind, was leering at them, a glass of beer in his hand. "And wearing Weasley's jersey, no less! Wonder if you'd do the same for any goalie, though I suppose seeing you in a man's shirt loses all fun when you've already seen what's underneath."

"Get lost, you creep," Granger spat at him, and she and Ginny turned away from his smug expression in mutual disgust. 

"I'm so glad we're not playing the final as an away game," Ginny said. "At least when he's just a spectator he more or less keeps quiet. Imagine having to deal with him on the bench."

"I don't get why Dean doesn't just deck him across the face, honestly."

"We must remember to commend him on his splendid self-control, because I have half a mind to step over those rows and go punch him right now, and it's not even my boobs he was gross about," Ginny said, wrinkling her nose. 

The swarms of University fans dispersed a few feet, walking over to the nearest pop-up stand to get a cup of beer or a pack of crisps, and when a few minutes later the whistle sliced through the air, its shrill call seemed to herd them all back to their seats on the bleachers.

When gameplay resumed, Granger could sense a change in the University's strategy: there seemed to be a constant push _forward_ , always forward, always trying to get past midfield to score and get the one-up on Durmstrang. They weren't successful for a lot of attempts, and Weasley managed to stop yet another close call or two, before Smith and Harry decided to take a leaf from Durmstrang's book and tag-team Krum on either side so Pucey could slip by comfortably.

For a few minutes, Pucey, Davies, and Flint passed it back and forth, until they were far enough that Pucey could relegate to a few feet from the midfield line and Montague came down to help them. The ball danced between their legs, about seven minutes of constant passing until at last a Durmstrang defender was too slow and Flint managed to take a clean shot at the net. The ball bounced off the goalie's hands, and a collective groan issued forth from the bleachers; then, Montague rebounded it and took another shot that the goalie this time stopped with his chest, meriting yet another groan from the fans; but Davies was there quickly, and this time, rather than aim at the goalie's torso height, he pushed the ball forth so it stuck to the ground and dashed quickly over the goal line losing speed as it approached the far end of the net.

It was a goal, fair and square, no matter how drab, and a goal was to be celebrated. The bleachers cheered for Davies, who allowed himself a fleeting hair toss as celebration before he dashed back to midfield. 2-1 for the University felt good.

With only twelve minutes left on the clock, the University's strategy soon became clear: 2-1 was more than enough for them, and they wouldn't exert themselves trying to score again, but would instead concentrate their efforts on keeping Durmstrang from tying with them. The offensive players joined Harry at midfield, with Pucey and Smith withdrawing to form a line of defense between midfield and defense, and the spread seemed to work: every ball a Durmstrang player tried to shoot forth was invariably met by a gold-clad player kicking it far from their side.

Krum was getting frustrated, Granger could tell: Harry had opted for a man-to-man marksmanship on him, so he could be of no significant aid to his team. Without Krum's support, the Durmstrang team seemed to be at dire straits, and they were significantly less coordinated. The minutes trickled by —ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five—, and still Durmstrang made no advances. The University strategy was holding up firmly, and if they could keep it for about four minutes more, the cup would be theirs for the first time in years.

Granger felt her own heart swell in her chest, as she imagined the rest of the University crowd's would be: she knew she couldn't call the game just yet, but as four minutes bled down to three to two to one, she couldn't help but be overtaken by the hope that victory might be closer than anyone thought. 

The seconds dashed by, and she could almost taste it, breathe it, see it, growing more tangible second by second...

But then Krum finally managed to get a leg past Harry, and he seemed to be profiling himself to send a ball for a last-second goal to the stocky striker. Pucey panicked, and though Harry was still at a healthy containment distance, he slammed into Krum with a brutality that could only mean one thing...

Though both Ginny and Granger feared it, the referee's whistle confirmed it: the crowd seemed to deflate when the referee held a hand up to signal a penalty.

Unbelievable. Just a few seconds to go, and Pucey had managed to give Durmstrang the surefire opportunity to tie.

"The idiot," Ginny said, shaking with budding rage. "I'm going to kill him, the absolute, blithering idiot."

The referee placed the ball on the white circle outside the penalty box with the finality of an executioner placing a head on the nook of a guillotine, and that was the sense that hung over the field at that very moment. It was Weasley on his own now, Weasley against the striker built like a wardrobe, and everything was on his shoulders now.

"C'mon, Ron," Granger whispered over and over again, like a mantra, like a prayer. By the look of Ginny's scrunched-shut eyes and the sound of her unintelligible mumbling, she might _actually_ be praying. Granger remembered what it had been like at that first game, when superstition had claimed her and demanded she keep her eyes on Weasley or else he'd fail the save, and she hoped to everything that same superstition saved them now.

The striker lined up and the crowd fell into silence as he drew his leg back to ready the kick. Weasley, under the goalposts, held every muscle in his body terse with concentration, with readiness to spring in any direction in any moment, trying to ignore the forceful beating of his caged heart against his nervous ribs. The striker ran at the ball and —it was done, there was nothing they could do now— kicked it. The ball sailed, somersaulting in the air, fatally toward Weasley, and he wasn't going to get there fast enough, they were done for, it was going in—

With a dry thump, Weasley lunged forward and again clamped the ball firmly to his chest, balling into himself on the soft grass and holding the ball to his body for what two or three seconds remained of the game before the referee's whistle signaled the end of the game with a finality that was now brilliant instead of deathly. 

The crowd swayed in dazed stupor for a few seconds, allowing what had just transpired to fully sink in, before they roared with a volume that must've shaken the earth, stomping and jumping on the bleachers with enough force that Granger thought they'd come right down. _They'd won_.

Squealing, Ginny threw her arms around her, and Granger responding in kind, hopping up and down squeaking "We won! We won!" over and over again. 

Weasley remained curled into himself on the ground, refusing to let go of the ball, until Harry approached and coaxed him to stand up, taking him by the arm. He spun him around to face the crowd, which, revering the now-standing goalkeeper, gave him one thundering ovation and then began to chant the phrase "Weasley is our king" stomping and clapping in rhythm. 

The team huddled in the middle of the field, around Weasley, ambushing him from all sides and tackling him into a sweaty tangle of a hug that sent them all sprawling on the grass, falling on top of one another like dominoes but shaking with gleeful laughter. Granger thought Oliver Wood might be bawling, from how he'd collapsed on the grass, and even Coach Hooch was dabbing at the corner of her eye unassumingly.

On the other side, the Durmstrang players traipsed back to their bench defeatedly, where the dark fury that contorted Karkaroff's features forecasted a brewing storm.

Ginny's cheeks were streaming with tears, too, and Granger found her mouth stretched in an uncontainable grin as the two women broke their hug to look at one another. The crowd hadn't lost any of its spirit, and as Ginny turned around to embrace her football teammates, Granger thought it might have actually gotten louder. She understood the reason for the rise in decibels as soon as she turned around: marching toward her, breaking into a sprint to get to her, was Weasley himself.

When he arrived at the bench, he barely gave her time to collect herself before he swept her off her feet and into a burning, urgent kiss. It was electrifying: every nerve in Granger's body crackled with sensation, and she didn't hesitate to throw her arms around Weasley's neck, feeling his still-gloved hands close around her waist, and return the kiss with such pressing force that Weasley had to steady his stance to be able to kiss back.

The crowd went wild, and it didn't bother either of them one bit: they'd won the final, and that was enough, _more than enough_ , and even with the whole world watching, only a kiss like that could do their singular jubilation any justice.

Harry, who was watching with a smile from just a couple of feet away (having followed Weasley to go kiss Ginny too), felt a light tap at his shoulder. He spun to find Krum's extended hand, and met it with a firm shake of his own, captain to captain. "Good game," the brooding captain said with noble resignation, and Harry could only return his handshake with mutual respect. With a twitch of the mouth that Harry could only interpret as a budding smile, Krum gestured toward Granger and Weasley, who were still locked in a close embrace, black-and-gold merging in the middle. "I saw her ven I vos looking, at the start of the game. Do you know vether it is just a celebration, or are they going out?"

Sensing his intention and looking happily at his two friends, Harry had never been happier to declare, "Sorry, mate, I'm afraid you're out of luck. They're dating."

Granger and Weasley overheard him and looked at one another, Weasley tightening his grip around her waist, pulling her closer. "Is that how it is, then?" he said breathlessly, grinning madly. 

"Is that how you want it to be?" Granger said, still wanting him to be the one to make the choice but unable to keep the wishful edge from her voice.

"Well, don't tell me you're going to make me ask," Weasley said, feeling his own heart quiver in his chest. "Hermione Granger, will you be my—?"

"Oh, shut up," Granger cut him off with another triumphant kiss, and Weasley could do nothing but oblige and, through a smile, kiss back. And the kiss was even harder this time, because they both knew the answer contained in her lack of a formal one— and it was a resounding, deafening, _yes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update— I was struggling to get through writing one last football game, and I realized halfway through that I was borrowing most of the gameplay from the Germany-Mexico 2018 World Cup faceoff...
> 
> And I must admit that I shamelessly stole Harry and Ginny's HBP kiss, but I couldn't not have our Ron get two victories in the space of a few minutes. Hey, no shame in it, is there? :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	37. Chapter 37

"Good morning," Granger said with a smile, sidling up to him with a smile and a paper bag in hand.

"Good morning to yourself," Weasley responded in kind, getting the tray of beverages he was carrying out of the way and bending his knees slightly so he could give her a peck on the lips.

They had fallen into a pleasant routine in the days following the football final: they'd both leave their flats early on, Granger would go pick up breakfast and Weasley would go pick up the drinks (sometimes coffee, sometimes the ever-present chamomile tea, sometimes a surprise), they would meet outside a predetermined shop on Hogsmeade Lane, and they would go off together to a different spot for breakfast each day before they both went about their respective days.

It had given both of them something to look forward to every single morning, without fail. That was one of the little perks of budding love: everything seemed exciting, everything seemed like something to look forward to, and that meant they were both persistently happier than they'd ever thought a person could be for such a long time.

"Where's breakfast this morning?" Granger asked, looping her arm around his.

Weasley cinched his arm tighter to him, bringing her closer, feeling her nestle into the innings of his body. He was getting used to this feeling, of fitting like puzzle pieces, and it was positively intoxicating every time her touch bestowed it on him. "It's my turn to choose, isn't it?"

"Well, it only follows, since it was mine yesterday."

"Don't get smart on me. Now, where can we stop...?" He scanned their surroundings for a second or two, as if that would suddenly reveal the answer. "I've got it. C'mon, let's walk."

"Aren't you going to tell me where we're going?" said Granger as they fell into a steady stride, quick enough to get them there in time but not so fast that they couldn't enjoy a walk with one another.

"Spontaneity, Granger, don't you forget that," Weasley declared as they took a corner on one of Hogsmeade Lane's branch-off streets. They walked a few more blocks before they came up before the University Art Gallery, an imposing ash-colored Victorian building with a green roof.

Weasley ushered her in through the also-green front gates, and they walked up the stairs to what Granger could only assume was an atrium in the museum or somewhere similar. To her surprise, before they could even set foot in the lobby, Weasley stopped a few steps from the top and sat down on one next to a humongous column.

"On the stairs?" Granger asked, and Weasley nodded. She sat by him, setting the paper bag between them. The beverage tray was in the same place but one step up. "Won't we get told off for loitering?"

Weasley shrugged. "The Gallery opens in a half hour, and even then, they won't get most of their transit until eleven or so. Plus, I asked Luna. She volunteers with the Gallery and she said it'd be okay so long as we didn't obstruct the steps when too many people started arriving."

"You're a wonder," said Granger, marveled at the effort he'd put into finding this spot, and rewarded him by leaning in for a sweet kiss. Smiling, Weasley knew to take the kiss as a show of her gratitude, and returned it with the same tenderness. He thought he'd never get used to kissing Hermione Granger— it felt too good to be true, and it took him to heaven every time he could feel her lips on his.

"Now, let's get down to business: what's for breakfast?" he asked as they pulled away to sit comfortably on the steps.

Granger smiled as she bounced the paper bag intriguingly in her hands. This was also part of the routine: neither of them knew what the other one had gotten until they got to their breakfast spot. They got different things each day without ever asking the other, for this way, every morning held within its already-existent small bubble of euphoria the added benefit of a surprise. Besides, it felt good whenever either of them received a compliment from the other one on their choice: it made them feel like they'd gotten it right, like they knew each other better and better each morning. "Try to guess."

"Is it croissants again?"

"I'm not so boring," Granger said, and she couldn't resist keeping the surprise for another guess, because she pulled two waxed-paper-wrapped items out of the bag and held one in each hand. "Bagels! From that new café that opened up behind Hogsmeade Lane."

"What's in it?" Weasley asked, beginning to pick the wrapper off the bagel.

"Take a bite," coaxed Granger, and it took no more than that for Weasley to oblige. He bit into it with gusto, and after the satisfying crunch of teeth piercing through crisp bread, a small, oily-yellow trickle appeared at the corner of his mouth. As he chewed, he wiped it away with the sleeve of his coat, eliciting a protest from Granger, who held out an exaggerated amount of napkins to him. "Is this just butter?"

"You'll think it quite plain—"

"No, it tastes great," he reassured her, taking another bite and being careful not to let the butter drip onto his chin this time. "It really does."

"Good, because I think if I'd just told you it was a bagel with melted butter in the middle, you would've been disgusted," she laughed with relish, taking the first bite out of her own. "It's not a conventional choice, but it reminds me of a trip to New York I took with my parents once, for a dental convention they both had, or something. There was this bagel place called Zucker's, and it was within walking distance of the hotel, so we walked there when they needed to catch a quick bite before their day started."

"Much like us."

"Yes, indeed, much like us. I was a picky eater back then, and so the only topping I liked on the list was, unsurprisingly, _butter_. So that's all I ordered, and when I saw the shop today, I remembered. So there you have it— not much in terms of flavor, but a lot in terms of nostalgia."

"Well, Granger, I don't exactly have breakfast with you for culinary excellence, but to spend time with you— so obviously something plain that gets me a story from your lips is worth much more than any flavor of anything." He was pleased to see her smile, and he momentarily put the bagel to the side to reach for the tray of beverages. "Alright, my turn. I'm gonna make you guess too."

Granger took one of the cups and cautiously sipped from it, careful not to scald her lips. Her tongue was met with a creamy, frothy wave of something sweet, with a hint of a roast in it. "Is this some kind of nut?"

"It's a hazelnut latte," Weasley explained. "My story isn't as good as yours: I stopped by the Three Broomsticks and Rosmerta promoted it as a seasonal flavor. I'm not much for coffee if it's not black, but I have to admit, it smelled pretty great."

"It sure tastes that way too," Granger said, taking another sip. Taking her cue, Weasley grabbed his own cup and washed the bagel down some, savoring the undertones Granger had perceived as well.

In comfortable, familiar silence, they worked through their breakfast, interspersing bites of bagel with sips of coffee until only small amber pools of butter remained at the bottom of the waxy wrappers.

"Shall we walk back?" Weasley said when he'd crumpled his wrapper into a ball and tossed it into the paper bag. Granger did the same and dabbed at her greasy fingertips with a napkin, handing one to Weasley so he could do the same. They also balled up their napkins and put them in the paper bag, which Granger picked up as they stood up from their steps and descended the stairs of the Gallery back toward Hogsmeade Lane, for each of them to head to their respective departments.

"What are you doing today?" Granger asked as she deposited the paper bag neatly into the open maw of a nearby trashcan, switching her drink over to her left hand so she could grab Weasley's hand with the right.

Weasley gave her hand a squeeze before he responded. "Just the regular. Going in, probably conducting some tests, refusing to order my desk, and fighting McLaggen. Pretty nondescript morning in my book. You?"

"I've got a couple of lectures before noon," Granger explained. "Joint sessions for the Linguistics and Literature Departments, so I've got to give two. Not the most exciting, but it might do the undergrads good to step out of their sole disciplines."

"Oh, you'd better rush, then."

"Not at all. Let me walk you to the lab— it's on the way."

Warmth flowed to their hands from two sources: one, from the cardboard cups still half-full they brought periodically to their lips to sip from, and two, from the clasp of their hands between their bodies. Granger was a creature of routine, but no matter how usual these breakfasts and walks-back with Weasley were becoming, she loved them all the more for the element of novelty each held within it. It felt good, she thought, to settle into being with someone without second-guessing or overthinking. That stage, she thought as she snuck a glance at Weasley out of the corner of her eye, was long behind her, and all the better for it.

They came up in front of the lab doors in what seemed like no time, and parted ways with a kiss. "And don't forget, we said we'd go for lunch at the Hog's Head with Harry and the rest of them," Granger reminded him as soon as they pulled away.

He smiled: he was fond of these slight hints of her usual bossiness. "Abe's going to have a stroke when we ask him to pull together a table that big."

"Oh, he'll be glad of it. I'll meet you here and we'll walk together?"

"You don't have to ask me twice," Weasley smiled, leaning in for one last kiss before he disappeared into the lab and left her to complete the walk to the lecture hall.

He walked in practically humming, bidding everyone a good morning left and right as he made his way to his workstation in the back. He reached for his labcoat and put it on with a suave flourish that did not in the least fit the frayed and stained garment.

"Someone's in a good mood today," Michael Corner perked up from the next table, walking over to greet Weasley.

"It's a good day, Corner, I can feel it. Have you got a mint? I've got the nastiest coffee breath."

"Gum okay?" Corner said, pulling a neon blue pack from the pocket of his labcoat.

"You're a saint," Weasley said as he accepted a stick, unwrapped it, and stuck it into his mouth. He gave it a couple of tentative chews before he turned to Corner again. "Now, what are we working on today?"

"Sinistra's put out some ionic cobalt samples she wants us to put through the mass spectrometer," Corner said in a businesslike manner, handing Weasley a packet of instructions he recognized as Sinistra's sharp writing. "She said she wants them done by this afternoon—"

"Which means you'd better hurry up, doesn't it?" came an unpleasant voice, and Weasley swore under his breath before he turned to face a smug McLaggen. "After all, Weasley, you should take every chance you can to please Sinistra. Who knows how many more assignments she'll give you before she finally sacks you from the program?"

"Stick to your own work," Weasley said through gritted teeth, but McLaggen wasn't backing down. He came a few steps closer, in that irritatingly arrogant strut he exhibited whenever he felt confident.

"I can't imagine she's too happy with you. She must be disappointed in your work, especially in those samples you lost last term..."

"I didn't lose them, McLaggen, you stole them."

"Any proof of that?" he challenged with malice, and Weasley fell silent. "I thought so. You'd think for someone whose standing at this lab was so precarious you'd want to put in more effort into not being booted out," he said, gesturing toward Weasley's messy station. "Let's face it, Weasley, Sinistra can't be happy about how much time you spend on the football pitch."

"You could be spending the same time on there if you weren't such a shit goalkeeper," Weasley fired back quickly, and McLaggen's facial muscles clenched briefly with ire before he retaliated, his tone displaying the same nonchalant swagger, as if Weasley hadn't embarrassed him.

"Speaking of which, Weasley, I saw Granger wearing a jersey with your name at the final the other day. How much did you have to pay her for it? She strips for free, apparently, so I can't imagine what her price tag is for doing the opposite."

Weasley lunged forward, red in the face, with a fist drawn back to push into McLaggen's smug expression, but Corner held him back with great effort, holding on to the table for support to keep Weasley from tackling McLaggen. "Ron, don't," he said warningly, as Weasley muttered over and over again "I'll kill him, I'll actually kill him."

"Don't give him the satisfaction, Ron," Corner told him with a voice raspy from the strain of containment, and that seemed to wind Weasley down. He stopped resisting and returned his arm to its rightful place, taking a couple of deep breaths before he dared looked McLaggen straight in the face again.

"She's my girlfriend, McLaggen. Talk about her like that again and I swear I'll kill you."

"So you _are_ dating," McLaggen said with malicious calm.

"Yes, we are."

"So she just dumped the Malfoy chap like that?" McLaggen said, and the images of that fateful Tweet flooded Weasley's mind again, and he stifled them just as quickly as they appeared. "Rita —she's the Head of PR, you probably don't know her, but I'm well-connected—, well, she's a family friend of ours, practically my aunt, really. She told me it seemed pretty serious when she spotted them canoodling in the library."

"That was a nasty trick to get back at her," Weasley said. "None of it was true— trust me, I know, I've paid the consequences for believing it. The fact of the matter is, McLaggen, that Granger's with me now and happy to do it, and it'd do you good if you stopped projecting your jealousy over that fact into discrediting my work."

"So it's confirmed, then?" McLaggen said, with an odd tranquility that was a discordance from the usual brutishness he would've adopted after Weasley spoke to him like that, but Weasley was steaming too much to remark on.

"Yes, it's confirmed, and I don't care who knows it!" Weasley spat brusquely, before turning on his heels to give his back to McLaggen and resume his work without (hopefully) further interruption.

"You don't care now," McLaggen muttered to himself as he sauntered back to his station, his work done, "but give it a few days and you might."


	38. Chapter 38

The library, which had long become their customary spot, was buzzing with activity this afternoon, partly because it was a Wednesday and classes had let out shortly ago, and partly because —with February around the corner—, the library was a phenomenal place to stakeout one's crush in an attempt to talk to them.

But no such business was going on at the table where Draco and Granger were seated, in their usual spot in between bookcases. Draco had long worked through _Crime and Punishment_ , and was now reading his way through _Jane Eyre._ "The festivities demand it, Granger," he'd told her when, at the beginning of their session, she'd inquired. "With February 14th creeping up, one has to read some romance."

"You're aware that Rochester keeps his mad wife in the attic and he practically gaslights Jane into loving him, right?" she'd replied, raising a quizzical eyebrow at Draco's choice of book.

"What did you want me to read? _Twilight_?" Draco had deadpanned, and that had shut her up. "Besides, what's a good romance without a healthy dose of morbidity? Teen fiction, that's what, and I'll be dead before I lay my hands on _that_."

"Leave it to you to place all your faith in romantic literature in the gothics," Granger had responded, and with that, she'd clicked the button on the side of her tape recorder and their session had begun.

Now, almost a half hour later, the small recorder kept blinking its one red eye happily between them, exchanging words that painted Draco not as Granger's close friend but as the serious chemist he was to most.

"All scientists, really, but chemists in particular, speak a language of abbreviations. Just look at the periodic table: one or two letters are all we've got to symbolize some of the more complex elements ever studied by mankind. And then there's the p-plus," Draco absentmindedly drew a 'p+' on a small scrap of paper, "the n-zero," now an 'nº', "and the e-minus", finally, an e-. "Protons, neutrons, electrons. They make up everything in the known universe, and we jot them down in two tiny symbols. To put it quite simply, chemistry is a sort of shorthand in and of itself."

Granger recalled the pattern she'd picked up with Weasley and Neville, and decided to put it to the test with the last of the physical science. "Draco, a lot of the other scientists I've interviewed for this project have said that science and visualization go hand-in-hand. Is that the case with chemistry?"

"I would very much say it is. If it weren't for models, I doubt we'd understand the atom. Take a look at this..." he began, and drew on the same scrap a small cluster of circles, around which he penciled out six rings, surrounding the cluster like a planet. "This is what you visualize when you think of an atom, right?"

"Yes, it is," Granger said, recalling every single science poster she'd seen since grammar school and its inevitable decoration.

"Well, that sucks, because real atoms look nothing like this." He drew a circle, shaded it, and then drew more, bigger circles around it without shading them in. "Bohr and Rutherford thought it looked like this, and this is a really useful model if you're understanding orbitals and electron arrangement. But it _also_ looks nothing like this." He wrote the letters 'Cl' now, and placed seven small dots around the letters, arranged in pairs as if on each side of an imaginary square except for the one dot. "And Lewis thought it might look like this. This model works if you want to represent bonding between atoms and valence electrons, but an atom also looks nowhere near close to this."

"So what _does_ an atom look like?"

"That's the beauty of it, isn't it?" said Draco, smiling coyly. "Nobody knows what an atom actually looks like. In fact, there's no way of knowing where an electron _is_ at any given moment, only where it's _likely_ to be."

"So why does anyone bother with all of these models?"

"Well, they break down the most essential structure on Earth into more digestible shapes. And they allow us to look at specific characteristics of atoms. Isn't that what science is about, Granger? Getting down to the bare bones of everything?"

"Well, yes, but isn't this an oversimplification rather than a breakdown?"

"Yes and no, at the same time. Sure, this isn't what atoms actually look like, not by a mile, but they help us know what they _might_ look like more than if we'd never ventured to try to represent them."

"So we don't know what it _does_ look like, but what it _might_ look like." Granger stopped to mull those words over for an instant. "Kind of like an electron."

"Now you're getting it," said Draco. "That's science for you. We try to get as close as possible to the truth, even if it turns out we were off by light years, because it's better than not trying at all. And that's why models, and diagrams, and arrows, and dots and circles and rings, are so necessary when it comes down to breaking down our universe into its littlest pieces."

"That's a nice note to finish on," said Granger, and with an agile tap of her finger, she shut off the recorder. At last, the red light slept.

"Wonderful. I feel awfully eloquent," Draco said, losing tension in his back and easing into his chair. "When you write about me, Granger, make sure to paint me as a serious —but handsome— scientist who wears all black and looks like the word 'mystery' personified. I could do with an aura."

"You already _have_ an aura," said Granger, reaching over to smack him playfully with a book of her own. 

"I suppose that might be true. It's the combination of pale hair with dark clothes, isn't it? It's always done wonders for me," said Draco, looking genuinely concerned for his appearance, and bringing out a laugh from Granger. Taking a second to smirk in shared amusement, he then switched his tone radically: "Now, Granger, just because I'm a mystery doesn't mean you can be too. Tell me about Ronald."

"Didn't you hear? I thought it might be public news around here by now. We're dating," she said, and her heart turned over with the certainty of those last two words. She'd never get tired of saying them.

"I pride myself on not believing anything about my friends that doesn't come from their own lips. So it's true, then?"

"I'm telling you it is."

"And are you happy?"

She didn't expect that question from Draco, and she hesitated in her answer not because she doubted it, but because she was surprised he'd asked it. "I think I am. For now, at least. I feel at peace, and I don't feel so on edge all the time. It's exciting, in a new way."

"In a way that doesn't imply burying yourself in books, you mean."

"Bold words from someone who also uses intellectual pursuits to cope with his social issues— but yes, it's exciting in the conventional manner."

Draco paused, surveyed her, and then tilted his head as if the smile that had suddenly appeared at the corner of his mouth had weighed his whole face down. "Well, I'm very happy for you, then. You deserve to be happy. And so does, I suppose, Ronald."

"You _suppose_?"

"You forget we went to secondary school together and hated each other, Granger; my loyalty and all its consequent niceties are to you. Which means if he steps out of line he'll have me to square up against."

"I can't imagine you getting into a fistfight with Ron," Granger said, eyeing Draco's thin arms under his black turtleneck.

"From where did you possibly get the idea that my tactics are physical?" he said with a wink.

While they were on the subject, Granger took the opportunity to check in with him as well: "And how are you doing with the whole Harry subject? Better? Allowed yourself to move on?"

Draco sighed and looked away, his chest seeming to deflate under the weight of the question. But he replied with determination: "Much better, definitely. I have to admit speaking to him helped. We're not the best of friends, or anything, but at least we exchange a few polite words whenever we meet. That's a lot more than I'd've ever bargained for."

"Good, I'm glad," Granger said softly. She saw his eyes stay stuck to the table, and knew to interpret that as a sign of the disappointment he no doubt still harbored. She reached across the table and rubbed his upper arm reassuringly. "You'll find someone for you, Draco. You'll see. Just give it time."

"Oh, I know I'll find someone," Draco sighed, trying to eke out an airy laugh. "It's just a question of whether someone will find _me_."

A sudden racket rose from the other side of the bookcase to their left, and —shooting each other a look of concerned curiosity—, Draco and Granger rose from their seats to see what the noise was all about.

On the other side, they found a small, thin boy with mahogany-brown hair buried in a pile of books that had, by the looks of it, jumped off their shelves as if they had been cliffs. 

"I'm sorry," he began apologizing profusely in a high-pitched voice, "I was trying to reach for a book on the top shelf and I thought the bookshelf would hold me..." He chuckled to himself. "Guess not. Want a sweet? As a... peace offering, for disturbing your study time?"

The boy rummaged around in his pockets, still blanketed in books and sitting on the library's carpet floor, and dug out a couple of butter caramels he held out in his palm. He looked at Draco, and Granger could feel her friend's breath hitch in his throat: whoever this boy was had deep, gentle gray eyes and prominent cheekbones, holding his features up regally in a way that would've given him a statuesque air if his situation hadn't been so comical.

"I'll take one," Granger offered, sensing that Draco was going to remain rooted to the spot until prompted otherwise. She nudged him gently with her foot, and he sprang back to life while still looking a little dazed.

"Oh, goody," the boy said happily as Granger began unwrapping her caramel. He got up with a clatter of books falling to the floor, dusted off his trousers, and held out the other caramel to Draco. "And you?"

"Thank you," Draco blurted clumsily, still unable to tear his gaze from the smaller boy's face as he accepted the sweet.

"They're a good way to make friends, sweets," the boy said happily, before seeming to remember his manner and holding out a polite hand to Granger and Draco. "Astor Greengrass. First year of a Masters in History, though I know I look like a second year."

"I'm Hermione Granger," she said, "and this is—"

"Draco. Draco Malfoy," he cut her off in a slow voice, reaching out to take Astor's hand and shake it once. 

"It's lovely to meet you, Draco," Astor chirped, allowing his hand to linger in Draco's. "I'm terribly sorry to be a bother, but would you mind helping me clean this mess up? You look like someone who knows their way around Dewey Decimal a lot better than I do."

"Yes, of course," Draco said almost immediately, jumping at the chance to lend a hand. "Please, allow me..."

Granger left them to it, slipping back around the bookcase with a smirk on his lips. Behind the shelves, she could almost picture Draco bending over backwards for this peculiar, sweet-toothed boy, and she could hear the drawl of his voice instructing Astor on how to interpret the Dewey system. She smiled to herself: when Draco had said it was a matter of someone else finding _him_ , she definitely knew he couldn't have expected to be found so fast, and especially not by a starry-eyed historian with too many books around him and too many sweets in his pockets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters? In one day? 
> 
> This was a shorter transition chapter, and I wanted to put it out to give myself some leeway to devote tomorrow to a longer chapter I think you'll all love. :) And, besides, Draco deserves some good things his way, too. And even better things are coming for our Ron and Hermione sooner than you think. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading!


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is best enjoyed the way it was written— sipping a quickly-lukewarming cup of chamomile tea from a mug emblazoned with a university crest. :)
> 
> CW: There is mature content further along this chapter. If you do not wish to read it, stop reading after the phrase "his body drawn to hers in a magnet-like fashion." It is signaled in bold for your convenience. :)

The fading sunlight had long left the library, but still Granger sat patiently at the table, poring over the transcriptions she had spent the past few hours doing. She barely heard the soft padding of feet on the library carpet until their owner was at her table.

"Tea for two?" a familiar voice said, and Granger smiled as she raised her head to meet Weasley, who was carrying the cardboard tray with two magenta cups that was becoming so usual in their interactions.

"Shouldn't you be at the lab?" she asked, gratefully accepting one of the steaming cups from the tray.

"It's closed off for the night, and besides, they're gonna kick me off the PhD program anyway, so I came to join you."

"Ron, you shouldn't say things like that," Granger said sternly, feeling the warmth from the cardboard cup flow into her cramping hands.

"Like what? Like the fact that it's a miracle I'm still on at the Physics Fac? I've made my peace with it."

"So long as you're _trying_ to stay on..."

"Of course I am, Granger, I love what I do and I wouldn't want to lose it. But I should think I'm allowed _some_ self-deprecation. Or is it really so wrong of me to bring my girlfriend tea when she's working late?"

She couldn't resist that, and she sipped through the same flattered smile. "Chamomile," she said with the finality of someone delivering a verdict once the first of the tea had gone down her throat. "You know we're going to get tired of it eventually, right?"

"What do you mean? I don't see how we could possibly get tired of the blandest flavor of tea on Earth," Weasley said, and Granger's soft laugh bounced off the bookcases around them.

"I won't get tired of it if it's you that keeps bringing it," she said, reaching out for his hand across the crowded table. "Thanks for showing up tonight. This is what's gonna power me through the last few minutes of Draco's recording transcription."

"So it's Ronald Weasley saves the day, then?"

"It will be when I'm done with this," Granger said, plugging in her earbuds once again and returning them to their ears.

"And then we'll be even for you getting McLaggen off that field."

"I should hardly think indecent exposure and bringing a hot drink can possibly equate to one another."

"No, but the tea's nice, isn't it?" said Weasley, and Granger had to give him a nod to say that _yes, it was_. "Well, I'll be looking for something to read while you finish this up."

Granger gave him a grateful look and he was off around the bookcases, trying to find something light he could breeze through noncomittally while she wrapped up her work. He settled on a stack of frayed comic books peeling at the edges, abandoned somewhere in a far-off bookcase and that had likely been looked over by University students looking for a read that would flaunt their scholarly standing. But not him: Ron Weasley knew how to appreciate the value of a good comic book without tying everything back to some intellectual pursuit. It was the same love for objects with a story behind them that drew him, inevitably, to the boxes upon boxes of secondhand vinyls at Remembrall.

He brought the stack back to the table, cradling it in his arms, and set them down with a decisive thump, which made Granger raise her gaze only momentarily before returning to her furious scribbling. Why she possibly preferred to transcribe things by hand, Weasley couldn't possibly say: it could be because it felt more organic, like it was her hand fleshing out the words instead of some typing automation, thereby preserving the human component...? Or it could just be because she was stubbornly old-fashioned for certain things (one just had to look at the outdated nineties recorder she carried around like some talisman instead of just using her phone). But he liked that about her— after all, didn't he like his own things secondhand? Didn't he like it when things weren't shining with novelty but laden, instead, with the weight of years well lived?

 _Tonks is right_ , he thought, and shook his head. _I_ am _a romantic._

But so, then, Granger must be. He looked at her now, utterly lost in her work, her eyebrows knit together and her lips puckered inward like she did when she was concentrated. He knew she wouldn't notice him looking, immersed as she was in the rapid-fire scribbling, and that was only more of an incentive to keep his eyes trained on her.

To an outside onlooker, it must have made quite the picture. The scene set between towering bookcases, atop a shaggy green carpet and at a chipped wooden table, bathed only in the faint glow of the lamp on the table, the only light left on in the library aside from the safety LEDs by the entrance. A tall, lean redhead sat across a much shorter, bushy-haired _scribe_ of some sort, jotting something down with ferocious vigor that sent her earbuds' wire jigging madly. And his eyes, deep and blue, crowning a contented smile, refusing to part with her face as if drinking in the mere sight of her, the comic book that flopped in his hands completely ignored— no rival for the woman. A color palette of dark olive green, parchment-paper brown, burnt auburn, stark chestnut, and the wavering yellow of an elderly lightbulb.

It was within this frame that they sat for about half an hour, punctuated only occasionally by the flip of a comic book page or the click of the recorder whenever Granger rewound to go back to a phrase she hadn't quite caught. Every so often, Weasley lifted his gaze from his absentminded reading to sneak a glance at her. The sight of her was addictive, and to look at her uninterrupted like this was a pleasure Weasley was only just beginning to grow accustomed to.

At long last, with a sigh of a last notepad sheet, Granger took her earbuds out, unplugged them, and drew them neatly into a portable coil.

"Finished?" Weasley asked, looking up again from his reading.

"I think so," said Granger, the relief evident in her voice.

Weasley put the comic book to the side and folded his hands neatly in front of him on the table. "So are you totally tired of work, or could you keep going?"

"What do you mean?" said Granger as she began to pack up.

"I only meant," began Weasley, reaching across the table and gently taking hold of her wrist, "that, if you're feeling up for it, we could have an impromptu session right now. Just the two of us."

"Oh, I don't know," Granger laughed it off, but her eyes glinted anew. "Last time we had an individual session, you were a tease."

"Oh, I was a tease? I didn't notice," said Weasley, but his eyes said otherwise, and he rose from his chair to lean across the table, almost as if he were ready to pounce upon it.

Granger mimicked his position, half-crawling on top of the table. "A _total_ tease. And I know you were enjoying it."

Now Weasley had fully climbed on the table onto all fours, getting closer to Granger with every word. "Maybe I _was_ enjoying it. Maybe I like keeping you on the edge of things."

"That's a good way to put it," said Granger, her voice low, as she echoed his movements and matched his position on the table. "You _did_ have me on the edge."

"And is that how you like it, Granger?" Weasley matched her tone, inching so close to her that the tips of their noses brushed against each other. "Do you like being on the edge, or would you prefer being pushed over it?"

"Why don't you try me?" she said, her voice now hitching in her throat. For an instant, they were suspended in an electric limbo, their faces so close their breath beat out a soft tattoo against each other's cheeks, held in anticipation with their heartbeats climbing from their chests into their throats.

And then, suddenly, Weasley broke it. He dove in and kissed her, fitting his lips familiarly, tangling them with hers. She reciprocated animatedly, in an almost automatic response, blissfully accustomed to the feel of his lips on hers (but which she could never quite get enough of).

The intensity rose, and before she knew it, Granger found herself laying on her back on the table, Weasley still holding his body on all fours above her and bending down to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself up slightly to meet him in the middle, their lips crashing with the urgency of wanting _more_. Something about this kiss was different. It felt like a prelude, like they were gearing up for something, and rather than feel the anticipation diminish, Granger's chest only continued swelling with it.

"I wonder how many library rules we're breaking," she mumbled against his lips in a moment where they both came up for air, and Weasley laughed briefly.

"You're making out with me, and that's your concern?" he chastised her, and she echoed his laugh. "What do you say," he whispered breathlessly, "we take this back to my flat?"

Her heart skipped a beat: the buildup in her chest had reached a tipping point, and somehow, she could feel whether or not it careened down into a denouement was up to her answer. And the answer, in question, came without hesitation to her lips: "I say," she said, peppering a kiss in between her words, "that sounds like a great idea."

He stumbled to his feet and, holding her by the waist, drew her to him, stooping over to continue to kiss her while she sat, legs dangling, on the edge of the table. She pulled him to her, seizing his button-down by the collar, gripping the fabric between her eager fingers. When he felt the pull at his shirt, he let out a pleased grunt, and responded by burying his hands in her hair, pushing her gently toward him so he could kiss her harder. Their tongues met eagerly in the middle, each venturing into the other's mouth as if compelled by a sense of urgency, until Granger broke apart.

"Your flat," she said blankly, reminding them both.

"My flat," he repeated dully, his fingers aching for her when she briefly left his grasp to grab her bag and sling it across her body.

They exited the library in a whirlwind of hushed giggling and snuck kisses, bumping into bookcases because neither of them wanted to let go of each other enough to actually see where they were going. It was in that same dazed tangle that they toppled the two blocks from the library to Weasley's apartment building, legs bumping against each other and lips reluctant to part for longer than a second. This was the one time, Granger thought, she was happy she'd worked so late: the cobblestoned streets were deserted.

After three times longer than it should've taken, they managed to make it up three flights of chipped stairs to a stained white door. Weasley pulled away from Granger, hair tousled and lips already swollen from so much contact, to fumble in his pockets and find the keys. Clinging to his arm, Granger let out something close to a whine: her lips missed his already, and a second apart was too much for her to bear in the heat that engulfed them both.

She could tell Weasley felt the same ache, because he struggled to get the key in its hole for a few tries, his impatience to get back to kissing Granger showing through in the clumsiness of his movements. Damn it, why had he started to lock his apartment? _Lavender_ , the answer came to him, but just as quickly, he pushed it from his mind: nothing about this was about her.

Finally, the key turned in its hole, and the door burst open with considerable force, leaving Weasley and Granger to step foot in the flat. They didn't bother with the lights: as soon as they were inside, Granger pressed her back to the small space of open wall between the door and the small table where Weasley usually deposited his groceries. She grabbed hold of his collar again and pulled him to her with such speed that he barely had time to kick the door closed behind him, before he pressed forward and pinned her to the wall, his lips searching hers hungrily, **his body drawn to hers in a magnet-like fashion.** Granger let out a soft whimper when she found herself pressed more tightly between his body and the wall, and Weasley thought that might just be the thing to drive him insane: he was beginning to be aware of a warmth springing just below his waist, and he wasn't sure of how much longer he could take before it finally sent him over.

"Bedroom," was all he could muster, and he felt Granger's head shift in a feeble nod of agreement. In the same hurricane of knotted limbs and blind stumbling, they found their way to a small, cramped bedroom with off-white shades drawn down a big window opposite the bed, which was spacious and unmade, Weasley having left his flat that morning without bothering with neatness.

Gently, as if dipping her during a dance, Weasley lowered Granger onto the bed without separating his lips from hers. Only when she was flat on her back against the sheets and Weasley's hands had found their way to the hem of her blouse did she pull away for an instant.

"Ron," she whispered, her eyes meeting his in earnest, "is this okay with you?"

He knew why she was asking, and loved her all the more for it. This time, it was the tip of his tongue that expelled an unwavering answer: "God, Granger, it's more than okay."

That was all the signal she needed: resuming their furious kissing, her fingers traveled to the top button of his shirt, where they nimbly pushed it out of its hole before descending to do the same with the remaining ones. Weasley, meanwhile, took hold of Granger's blouse and tugged it over her head, her hands only pausing their work on his buttons to rise above her head and allow him to pull it off completely. With his shirt undone and hers cast aside, their bare skin brushed for the first time, and it was intoxicating.

 _This is what it must be like to go to heaven,_ Weasley thought as his fingers found the clasp of Granger's trousers, feeling the pull at his own as she undid his belt buckle and lowered his zipper. They both gave their hands a break to wriggle out of their respective trousers, then discarding them with a kick of the legs into a pile a few feet from the bed.

Now only in underwear, Weasley climbed fully onto the bed, suspending himself on all fours above her just as he'd done over the library table, the fabric of his boxers an unacceptable obstacle in the way of her silken thigh. His hands navigated behind her, and she sat up slightly to allow them to rest over her bra clasp.

Now it was his turn to ask: "Is this okay?" he said, reaching into her gaze to pick out any signs of uncertainty, his hands dropping from the clasp and hovering above her back tentatively.

"I'm sure," she reassured him, sending one of her own hands behind her to grab his and steer them back onto the bra clasp, and that was all the signal Weasley needed.

Slowly, gingerly, while lost in a tender kiss, he allowed the small brooches to slip from their loops, exerting the pull he knew was needed to perform the separation. The bra dropped slightly as it lost its hold, and Granger shifted her shoulders to shake it off completely and toss it onto the pile of clothing sitting by the bed. Weasley thought he might drop dead at the sight: to have Granger bared, in front of him, the supple flesh of her breast just a few inches from his own freckled skin, was almost too much to bear.

"Wow," was all he could muster, unable to tear his eyes from between her two breasts for anything other than to meet her hazel eyes, awe pooling in his own.

"Wow yourself," she responded with an airy laugh, allowing her gaze to travel down his own body. It was everything she'd imagined it to be, she noticed with blossoming warmth, every time she'd been unable to stop looking at him moving on the football field. "I have a confession to make," she said, her thoughts streaming into words. "I've imagined this moment so many times, ever since I first saw you step foot on the football pitch and _move_... I didn't even know this was what I was conjuring up, but now it's here, and I can say with all certainty it's more than I could possibly imagine."

"Am I just that sexy, Granger?" he said, bending forward to kiss her, and he felt the small hum of her laugh against his lips.

"Don't lie to me, Weasley, don't say you haven't thought of this."

"Every single day," he expelled in a breath, letting his mouth travel from her lips down to her jawline. "Every waking moment..." —and now he was at her neck— "every time you showed up in one of those ridiculous cardigans..." —and now he was at her breast— "...and all I've been able to think about was how _badly_ I wanted to take them off..."

And now he was at her stomach, trailing kisses down the axis crossing her belly button, his hand following with a trailing caress. He stopped when he found himself at the waistline of her underwear, the tip of his finger lingering expectantly just a few millimeters from the fabric.

"Is this okay?" he asked again, the mere feel of the worn cotton teasing at his fingertips.

She responded by hoisting him up gently by the arms, and allowing her own hand to tug at the waist of his. "Yes, Ron, I promise. It's okay."

Without hesitation, he hooked a finger under the waistline of her panties and slowly began pulling down, the fabric slipping down her legs and quickly joining the rest of the clothes in the bedside pile. His were quick to follow, the tartan pattern looking aged in the few slivers of streetlight that tiptoed in from between the shades on the window, and now they were both fully bared.

She felt his warmth press against his thigh, and his eyes met hers expectantly. She knew, in them, was encased the same question, the final time he'd asked it before they went all the way. "Yes," she whispered again, sealing her words with a kiss for confirmation.

Weasley made his way to the bedside table and withdrew a small, square-wrapped packet from the top drawer, rummaging around the messy contents before he found it. He tore it in one fluid motion, and with as much ease of movement, sat up briefly to roll the condom on.

 _This was it_ , thought Granger as he returned to his leaning over her, and felt nothing budding other than excitement.

Weasley's hand found her way between her legs, rubbing gently and making her thighs clench with a shiver of pleasure, circling his thumb until he felt a hint of the telling moisture. Slowly, he positioned herself at her entrance, holding up his body with his forearms resting on the mattress. He looked at Granger, under him, one more time: her eyes glimmered and a smile hinted at the corner of her lips, and he could tell she was holding her breath. He lifted a hand off the bed to caress her cheek, feeling her melt into his touch, and gently lowered his lips down onto hers for a tender kiss as he pushed in.

She let out the breath in an airy sigh: the unfamiliar pressure between her legs had taken her by surprise, but it wasn't —not in the slightest— an unpleasant sensation. In fact, as her body adjusted, she felt tingles of pressure running up her body, and she let her hands leave her sides to wrap around Weasley and pull his body closer, hoping he'd understand that to mean everything felt in order.

He certainly did, and letting his lips briefly touch at the side of her mouth, he began to move rhythmically, thrusting in slow, steady strokes that Granger met with a buck of her hips upward. They were moving together, and if either of them had thought they knew what it felt like to fit like puzzle pieces before them, this only went to prove them wrong.

To Weasley, being inside, encased in her warmth and with the pressure of her bare skin against his, was incomparable. _This_ , he corrected his earlier thought, _is what heaven must_ truly _feel like._ A wave of pleasure rocked his body, and with a soft moan, he let his head drop down to nestle between her shoulder and her neck, transforming into an embrace that Granger took no time to complete, winding a leg across his body to push him closer, deeper into her.

That changed the angle, and they both let out a pleasured sigh as Weasley renewed his movements, propping himself up again to send his tongue between her lips, searching with the same craving as he was enacting below. They swayed softly and silently, with only their sighs and the muted creaks of the bed as a background score to their closeness, wrapping around each other with increasing ardor as if trying to come in contact with parts of each other neither knew they possessed.

After a while, Granger felt an unfamiliar, urgent warmth begin to tickle below her navel, and the flood only streamed lower until she found herself writhing in pleasure, pushed over the edge by Weasley's thrusting and the blissful friction of his lower body against her more sensitive areas. Her body clenched and unclenched, tensed and lost tension, as her breathy sighs rose into a muffled shriek, trapped at the back of her throat and stifled by her continuing to kiss Weasley. 

Allowing her a few seconds to come down from the climax, Weasley kissed her deeply until he could feel her thighs had released their tension. Satisfied at her satisfaction, he plunged into his strokes again, feeling her arms close tightly around him and squeezing him closer until he, too, had gone over the edge.

Panting, they dissolved into a muddled heap atop the sheets, giving each other a few seconds for recovery before they stood up to clean up after themselves. After a brief stop at the bathroom, they found themselves on the bed again, this time under the sheets and wearing nothing but their underpants, rescued from the pile of clothes. 

As soon as she settled in next to him, Weasley took her into his arms and felt her melt into his grasp, their lips meeting again tenderly in a sea of lazy kisses, the last few sighs escaping their chests with the residues of a wind-down.

"Blimey, Granger, that was incredible," mumbled Weasley, slurring his speech against the brush of her lips.

In the comfort of his arms, in the aftermath of intimacy, Granger felt years upon years of defensive layers peel off of her and vanish into thin air. The feel of his chest rising and falling beside hers, his skin warm against her own, and his lips faithfully close by had managed to get past the barriers she'd put up for seven, eight years. She felt her body grow lighter as it lost the weight of constantly having to keep its guard up, as it lost the persona she'd felt forced to put up to for so many years now and a spectre of her former self regained its place inside her soul. Was this lightness synonymous with freedom? Was this truth of self, was this genuine _being_? All she knew —and all she had to know, frankly—, was that, whatever it was, it was Ron (wonderful Ron, Ron at last) who had brought it upon her, that had ushered her into this newfound clarity.

"Not Granger," she muttered softly, bringing a hand up to trace his freckled cheek with. He softened at the touch of her fingertips, and pressed his mouth to the palm of her hand adoringly as she spoke her next words: "It's Hermione."


	40. Chapter 40

Hermione woke the next morning awash in a sea of sensations. The first she became aware of was the sunlight now tiptoeing in through the slivers in between the shades, dancing on her eyelids and tickling at them, as if teasing her to open her eyes. The second was the crisp, lingering warmth of the sheets around her. And the third —and most wonderful— was the feel of Ron's arm draped around her middle, pulling her close to him, as he snored quietly.

She snuck a glance at the clock on the nightstand and nearly leaped out of bed in alarm: the red numbers blared out 8:37 at her, and she'd agreed to meet Dean and Seamus at 9:30. If she planned on getting back to her flat in time to change into some fresher clothes and hop into a quick shower, she'd have to leave now.

But she didn't want to. God, what she'd give to stay here, shrouded in stiff sheets and melting into Ron's warmth, a warmth that had housed her the whole night through... For an instant, she was close to giving in, to just relaxing back into his embrace and delivering herself to sleep again, a more comfortable and much warmer sleep than she'd had in ages. Her eyes were drooping closed again when she came to her senses and forced them wide open again. _No. I have to go._

She had to muster all the willpower in her to draw Ron's arm softly away, careful not to wake him, in an attempt to get going. However, as soon as she started shifting, a groggy voice met her ears.

"Don't leave."

It was a soft, almost-whispered plea, and Hermione turned to see that Ron's eyes were slightly open, blinking off the heavy coats of sleep that still glazed them, and his hold on her had tightened, bringing her closer to him in bed.

"Good morning to you, too," Hermione said, secretly delighted to have an excuse to stick around for a few minutes longer, and slipped back between the sheets to give him a soft kiss on the lips.

Ron responded in kind, kissing tenderly, his eyes closing naturally to bask fully in the kiss. It was hard to pull away, and they both lost themselves in an exchange of slow-moving, lazy kisses, their arms finding their way around each other's waist and their legs beginning to tangle again, before Hermione broke apart reluctantly.

"Ron, really, I have to go."

"Why? What have you got?" he muttered, and pulled her back in for another kiss, which she gladly returned before she remembered herself again.

"No, really— I said I'd meet Dean and Seamus at 9:30, and I've got to get home to shower and put some clothes on."

"I like you with no clothes on," he mumbled, and she blushed happily, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "But don't leave, Hermione, please."

"I don't want to, I swear," she sighed, her hands finding their way up to his red hair and beginning to toy tenderly with the strands, "I promise I don't, but I have to."

"Ever so responsible," Ron whispered, and he kissed her once more, deeply, before he drew away and folded his hands neatly under the sheets. "Even if that admirable responsibility means you're going to miss out on the world-famous Ron Weasley breakfast pancakes."

"Another time, as much as it pains me to say," Hermione said, leaning over the bed to kiss his freckled cheek once more in temporary farewell.

"I'll take that 'another time' as a guarantee," came the groggy voice from the bed as she was pulling on last night's clothes, bending over to pick through the bedside pile.

"You can be sure of it," she assured him as she finished squeezing into her trousers. No witty remark came, so she turned around to look at him, and her heart melted: he was soundly back asleep, his lips still bearing the faintest trace of a comfortable smile.

As she snuck out noiselessly with her bag slung over her shoulder, careful not to rouse him, she allowed herself one last lapse in self-control to stop by his side of the bed and gently kiss his cheek again. Under her touch, he shifted and drew the covers more tightly around him. Yep, she was still safe to go.

She walked the three or so blocks to her flat surreptitiously, careful to avoid being unnecessarily seen, and just as quietly walked up the flights of stairs to her flat, her keys jingling as she took them out to unlock the door. Once inside, she withdrew her phone from her bag and looked at the time: it was 9:00 already. She'd have to be fast.

She jumped into the shower even when the water hadn't fully heated up, unwilling to waste what scant seconds she had left before she was due to meet them. But it turned out to be tricky business: even in the steady, steaming trickle of the shower, she found that every touch reminded her of Ron's. She drew her hands through her hair to shampoo and condition it and remembered how he'd cradled her head to kiss her; she let her hands roam around her body to slather on the body wash and ached at the memory of how his own pair had traveled the length of her so tenderly in bed; she sent a hand between her legs quickly, to wash, and found her body shivering with the remains of his same touch there just hours earlier. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was washing him off, every marvelous trace he'd left on her, and hated the thought of it.

She stepped out of the shower into the bedroom and glanced at the small alarm clock on her bedside table: 9:12. She was still doing suitably on time.

Without drying her hair off completely, she stumbled toward the closet and picked out clothes on autopilot, her mind elsewhere (elsewhere meaning, of course, back in Ron Weasley's bed): a burgundy cable-knit sweater, dark black corduroy pants cut at the ankle, and black ankle-height boots. As she slid the fabric of the trousers up her legs, she remembered what it had felt like, last night, in the opposite direction, with Ron's hands maneuvering them down... What was happening to her? She stifled her yearning for his touch, that nostalgic part of her mind that kept crying out for a return to his arms, and focused on the task ahead. She was well aware she was in a race against time and the seconds where whizzing by, and when she finally left her flat at 9:26 after hopping all over the place getting her purse and finishing her dressing, Ron had been momentarily pushed to the back of her mind. She knew it was futile to try to contain him there for long, but right now, she had four minutes on the clock to get to the Faculty of Architecture, and there were still four blocks to go.

She didn't think she'd ever run faster, and when she finally, breathlessly, slipped into a chair into the meetings room of the Architecture Fac, with Dean and Seamus staring at her quizzically, the clock struck 9:31 with what seemed like ironic amusement.

"I'm terribly sorry to be late," she managed to expel amid her panting. "I slept in..."

"Hermione, one minute late is no tardiness at all," Dean reassured her. "Especially not when you live with Seamus."

"Watch it," Seamus warned, but his eyes bore no anger.

"Well, you two look quite smart," Hermione said, looking them up and down. Out of their usual tee shirts and jeans and in faculty-appropriate wear like pressed pants and argyle vests, Dean and Seamus looked ready for business. Which, she reminded herself, was what she'd come here for.

"Let's get down to it," she said, rummaging in her purse for her recorder. After her hand made a few trips along the bottom of her bag, her heart dropped: _it wasn't there_. Had she left it behind at the library, in the furor of kissing Ron? Had it been left behind at his flat? "I'm terribly sorry, I can't seem to find my recorder..."

"Use your phone?" Seamus suggested, and Hermione resigned herself to the fact that that is how it was going to have to be. Reluctantly, she opened the voice memos app on her phone and pressed the button. She didn't like the soundwaves that formed on the screen at every small noise, nor did she like having to go through the interview without the recorder's red light blinking steadily and faithfully on the table. But she'd have to live with it, didn't she, because she hadn't bothered checking for it, because her mind was elsewhere...

 _Elsewhere_. There, again. She knew exactly where _elsewhere_ meant, and right now, it took her on a trip down Ron's body, from his blue eyes to his navel to the tip of his—

She cleared her throat. _Not now._ As much as she wanted to give in to the image, not now. "So, if we can start with both of you telling me a little more about what you do and why you do it..."

She was glad for the recording, even if it was the phone's, at that time, because she was having a harder time than ever before paying attention. Her mind kept drifting to the flat just a few blocks away, where Ron was... doing what? Was he still in bed— and if so, did he miss her in it? Was he up on his feet now, making breakfast, taking a shower, getting dressed? Was he sitting up in bed, reading, mindlessly scrolling down his phone, anything? And why on earth couldn't she stop thinking about it? It was just Ron going about his daily routine, wasn't it? What was ever so interesting about that?

She went through the interview robotically, reading off the questions from her faithful notepad (that, at least, had remained in her bag) and mentally praying her phone would be trusted to capture it all. She'd have to re-listen, eventually, because she wasn't getting a word they were saying (nor did she notice when Dean momentarily broke off the stream of his words to answer a text), but she'd given up in trying to fight back the fact that she couldn't fill her mind with anything but Ron.

 _Ron_.

And his voice, and his eyes, and his touches, and his kisses, and his skin against hers, and his breath on her cheek, and his lips lost in hers, and—

Good grief, she needed to get a handle on herself.

When, at last, the questions on the page had run out, she collected herself for long enough to call to mind the last, special question she'd prepared for them. "Thank you both so much. Just to finish us up, I wanted to ask a question that, in a way, brings both of you together. You're both experts at building things— Dean, with bricks, and Seamus, with 1s and 0s. What's that like?"

She was proud of this question, and because it was the only one that wasn't a part of the methodical, one-size-fits-all question list, her interest triumphed over her yearning and she found herself —finally!— able to listen.

Dean and Seamus mulled it over for a few seconds. It was Dean who spoke first: "When you put it like that, it sounds very poetic. But I'm not sure if I'd call myself a builder; take me to a construction site and I'd exit with the project worse off and my hands turned into giant blisters. I think I'd call myself a dreamer, instead: I spend my time drawing out buildings and houses that leap from my imagination onto the grid paper. I imagine it, sure, but I don't build it. I think the nice thing about being only the architect is someone else gets to build it."

At this, Hermione laughed. "But surely there's an element of _building_ that goes into planning."

"Oh, absolutely," Dean said with a smile. "It's in the mathematical stuff— whether a beam goes here or there to support it, how the weight is distributed, where the foundations go, at what angle things need to be to keep from collapsing... All the technicalities, in short. That's more the building stuff. But it becomes second nature, something you get used to considering. Until, eventually, it becomes a challenge: what's the most daring form I can pull off that's _still_ mathematically plausible? How asymmetrical can I make this without it crashing down? So even in the actual building, the creative aspect wins over, because I find myself testing the limits of the actual build with the stuff from my mind."

"I _am_ more of an executor," Seamus chimed in. "I'm not an artsy type. More of a pragmatist, I'd say. I see something that needs to get done and I get it done, simple as that. That's the beauty of computer sciences: it gets things done. And I like that image, that I build things up in 1s and 0s, because it is really what I do even if it doesn't always sound so pretty. You create something out of nothing using only two numbers. But you do it to fix a problem, or to make your life easier, not because it looks pretty or because it's art. There's a certain art, even, in just fixing problems the easiest you possibly can. It doesn't all have to be flourishes."

"Maybe that's why you guys work so well together," Hermione offered up. "Because Dean's a dreamer and Seamus is a doer. It's a good combination. It works out, in the end."

"It sure does," Dean said, shooting Seamus a butter-soft look that told Hermione that they'd interpreted her words as something beyond the professional— and that this might be a good time to end the interview.

She pressed the record button again on her phone, relieved to end this abnormal aberration to her usual routine, and saved the file under 'Dean & Seamus #1' before putting her phone back in her purse and coming back to her friends.

"About that, by the way," she began, knowing the tone had shifted, "how are you two?"

"As in, individually, or as in together?" Seamus asked.

"Together."

"Never been better," Dean said, slowly reaching out to take Seamus's hand. "In fact, we're thinking about how to just come out with it already. But it won't be easy."

"Why won't it? You know all of us, we're all for it— we'd all be tickled pink to see you officially together," Hermione said, feeling confident in speaking for their whole group of friends.

"No, well, we know you and the rest of the gang will be cool about it, but that's not it," Seamus said, shifting in his seat.

"Whatever's the matter, then?"

"Let's just say," Dean said uncomfortably, "that Seamus's mother is _very_ Irish."

"What's that have to do with anything?"

Seamus looked uncomfortable too, now, but he managed to explain: "Catholic. And a devout one at it."

Hermione's stomach sank at her insensitive obliviousness: why hadn't it been clear before? "Oh. I see."

Dean and Seamus nodded grimly, but resignedly, and it was obvious that this wasn't the first time they'd discussed it.

Hermione tried again, hoping she'd come off as supportive and not as naive, speaking softly: "But surely she loves you very much? I'm sure she'd be happy to see you happy, no matter with whom."

"That's what I'd like to think," Seamus said with a dry chuckle, "but—"

"But I'm gay, and on top of it, black," Dean finished for him, sending Hermione into silence. "Baby steps, Hermione. We're taking it one step at a time."

"Of course," Hermione blubbered, red in the face. "How terribly insensitive of me, I'm sorry..."

"No, don't be," Dean reassured her, his light smile bearing no ill will. "You're excited about it, and we are, too. Trust me, these are things we've had to think about for a long time now."

"And we'll be out with the rest of everyone soon enough," Seamus chimed in. "We appreciate you keeping the secret so long. It goes a long way."

Hermione smiled and her friends returned it, beaming in friendly reassurance.

"Speaking of which, by the way..." Seamus piped up again, "how are you and Ron doing?"

That brought it all flooding back: every image her memory had run through all day, every vestige of his touch her body still ached for, and it was all she could do to keep herself from getting all hot and bothered right there. "Couldn't be better, either," she said proudly. "Everything's going very well."

"And are you happy?"

She smiled softly, something in her heart turning over at the answer. "Yes, I'm very happy."

"That's all that matters, isn't it?" Seamus said, grinning openly. 

"So long as he feels the same way," Hermione said.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Dean prompted with a smirk, pointing behind her back and looking past her.

She swiveled around in the spinning chair and was met with a wonderful sight: on the other side of the glass door of the meetings room stood Ron, looking characteristically messy, but giving her a silly smile and holding her recorder triumphantly in one hand.

Delighted, Hermione went over to the door and opened it, letting Ron in. 

"I sure hope I'm not interrupting anything," Ron said apologetically, but Dean and Seamus were quick to reassure him with fervent shakes of the head that he wasn't. Relieved, he turned to Hermione and held out the recorder in his hand: "You left this behind—"

"Behind _where_?" Seamus whispered in dawning realization, but Dean elbowed him to be quiet.

"—and I knew you wouldn't want to do the interview without it... Even if I'm a little late," Ron finished, and Hermione took the recorder gratefully from his grasp.

"I certainly missed it," she said, looking down at it fondly before returning her stare to his eyes. "How did you know where I would be, anyway?"

"Texted Dean," Ron explained, and Hermione wondered why she hadn't possibly noticed Dean picking up his phone halfway through. "I got a little lost —and your secretary is seriously horrible, Dean, she said I had to make an appointment even when I showed her the very clearly time-stamped text where you told me to come right over to the meetings room—, but I'm here now."

"Just in time," Dean smirked, as if he'd planned it all. "We were just finishing up."

"Marvelous," Ron said, and turned his attention to Hermione, reaching for her hand. The both of them said goodbye to Dean and Seamus as they left the meetings room to get on with their day, and exited the Architecture Fac hand in hand to do the same.

"I don't assume you had enough time for breakfast, however superhuman your organization abilities are?" Ron said when they were outside on Hogsmeade Lane.

Only then did Hermione take note of a pinching twist at the pit of her stomach, which, as if taking its cue, rumbled slightly. "No, actually. I haven't had anything to eat, and I'm starving." Her eyes glinted with the flicker of a passing idea. "I don't suppose I'm still in time to try some of those world-famous Ron Weasley pancakes, am I?"

"On the contrary," Ron said, grinning, as he made a turn Hermione recognized as the first step in leading back to his flat. "It's _always_ time for world-famous Ron Weasley pancakes."

"How can I ever thank you?" 

"Well, since we're going back to my flat..." Ron said, dropping his voice, and Hermione immediately caught the implication. Her heart was practically cartwheeling in her chest: less than a few hours since she'd started feeling them, she'd be able to quench the urges building up in her body, craving for his.

"You, Ron Weasley," she said, picking up the pace so they'd get there faster, "are an absolute wonder to be with."


	41. Chapter 41

"But why did you have to get here so urgently?" Ron asked as they rounded out the last few steps toward the executive building.

"I don't know," Hermione answered, her bag clutched faithfully to her chest. "He wouldn't tell me. He said it was something we'd have to discuss in person, but that I'd better get here fast."

"That probably means good news, doesn't it?" Ron said.

"Oh, I don't know. But I certainly hope so. I don't know what could possibly be wrong, anyway."

"Nothing; you're in charge, after all." They came up before the stairs leading up to the building and Ron paused, placing his hands on Hermione's shoulders and looking her kindly in the face. "It'll be good. You'll see."

"Thank you for that," Hermione said with a smile, rising to her tiptoes to give him a chaste kiss on the lips. "See you for dinner?"

"You bet."

Shooting him one last affectionate look before she disappeared through the glass doors and he continued along his walk, Hermione made her way through the building's bureaucratic maze with singular expertise, knowing her destination. She felt her chest puffed with confidence: Ron always managed to inject her with a surety in her work that made her proud in it. However, she deflated a bit as soon as she opened the door to Shacklebolt's office and saw, standing beside his desk chair, the acid green figure of Rita Skeeter.

"Dr. Shacklebolt, Ms. Skeeter," she said politely, trying not to let on the unsettlement beginning to brew inside her at the unexpected sight.

But the unsettlement only grew when Dr. Shacklebolt denied her one of his usual, pleasant smiles, or any courtesies of a friendly greeting. "Sit down, please, Dr. Granger," he said firmly, and Hermione had little choice but to obey and try to ignore the ominous atmosphere this whole situation was giving off.

"Dr. Granger," Shacklebolt began when she was seated, her knuckles scrunched tightly around her purse to channel her nerves, "we've called you here because a serious issue has arisen with the Voice of the University project you've been tasked with."

Her heart dropped: _a serious issue_? But everything had been going perfectly! "I don't understand," she stammered disbelievingly.

"We have received news via a reputable source that you have initiated a formal sentimental relationship with one of the members of your project's database. This, as you know, is a violation of the University Research Impartiality Policy, and puts your project in serious jeopardy."

The world crumbled around her: this couldn't be. How had he found out? A look at Skeeter, who bore a repugnantly smug expression, told her that was where her answer lay. "How?" she said, piercing Skeeter through with a glare that made it very clear who the question was directed to.

"My godson, Cormac, works in the physics lab as well," Skeeter began, and at the mere mention of McLaggen Hermione felt a flare of anger arise in her. "It seems Mr. Weasley confirmed it the other day. He made it very clear that your relationship was something serious— he was adamant about it, in fact, so Cormac tells me. So Cormac felt it was his civic duty to report such a clear violation of the Impartiality Policy to me, as he didn't want it to reflect poorly on the PR Department, and from there on I'm sure you understand why I had to bring it to Dr. Shacklebolt's attention."

Even in her ardent ire toward McLaggen, Hermione felt something lovely pluck at her corners: Ron had stood up to him! If McLaggen had felt compelled to lash out like this, it could only mean one thing, and that was that Ron had finally made face to him. Swamped with anger as she was, her heartstrings couldn't help but be tugged at by it.

"But the others —Harry, Ginny, Luna, the like—, they're all my friends, and that was never an issue," she said.

"No, because that was perfectly fine," Shacklebolt answered. "The Impartiality Policy accounts for making acquaintances with, or even befriending, a member of the database. It's natural to connect to some extent, and we cannot punish a researcher for doing so. A romantic relationship, however, is a punishable offense under its guidelines."

"So what's next?" Hermione said, her voice beginning to quiver.

"So you don't deny it?" Rita interjected, maliciously amused. "You don't deny you're in a relationship with Weasley?"

Hermione practically nailed her to the wall behind her with an icy stare. "No," she said coolly, straightening her back and raising her chin so there was no question of what she was saying, "no, I do not deny it."

"Very well, then," sighed Shacklebolt, who had clearly been hoping for an easy way out. "Dr. Granger, I'm afraid what comes next is a temporary suspension of the project."

"A suspension?" Hermione cried. She'd been hoping for a reprimand, or an adjustment of the project, or even a budget cut, but not _a suspension_.

Shacklebolt nodded grimly. "Yes. Seeing as you have breached the Impartiality Policy, you can no longer be at the helm of the project. So we are suspending it until we can find someone else to take it over, or until we have a concrete plan of how to go on with it. In all likelihood, Ms. Skeeter here will spearhead it," he said, gesturing toward Rita, "but it will take a few weeks until we know what to do with it. This is rather a setback for our timeline, but I'm afraid it's the only way."

Hermione couldn't get the air to exit her lungs. "So this is it," she choked out. "So I'm to have nothing to do with a project I devoted all of first term to, and I can't even go back to the Celtic scrolls."

Shacklebolt looked dejected: "This isn't at all what I wanted either, Dr. Granger, please believe me. But I see no other way out of it. Like I said during one of our meetings," he sighed, and now Granger detected a hint of genuine sadness in his eyes, "when it comes to certain things concerning the Head of PR, my hands are tied."

"In the future, Ms. Granger," Skeeter said, her voice unmistakably laced with victory, "perhaps you might want to read all relevant policies as attentively as you did the Publicity and Privacy Notice."

Now Granger seethed with icy fury, because it had become exceedingly clear what this all was about: it was Rita's revenge, and it had all piled up on her in the worst possible way. She wanted to jump out of her seat and claw Rita's eyes out, but something glued her to her seat. She couldn't afford to possibly make things any worse than they currently were, and physically going at her would do nothing to improve her standing. And so she stayed seated, trembling with rage, unable to do anything but shake quietly in her spot.

Knowing her hands were as tied as Shacklebolt's, Rita strutted triumphantly out of the office, but paused by Granger's chair on her way out and stooped down to talk into her ear. "And, for the record, Ms. Granger, you might have wanted to pick another physicist for the project. Word on the street is Weasley will be out on his bum soon enough."

That made it clear: this was McLaggen's revenge as much as Rita's. Impassive, unwilling to give Rita the satisfaction of retaliation, she continued to look straight ahead, her gaze fixed on nowhere, the corner of her lip twitching with silent, contained rage. Rita exited the room, the clacking of her heels reverberating in a horrible echo around the room.

She sat quietly in her spot, defeated. Shacklebolt gave her a few instants before walking up to her and gently helping her out of her chair. "Please, Dr. Granger," he said, "I hope you understand this isn't at all the way I would've liked to handle this, but—"

"You don't need to explain yourself," Hermione said hurriedly, finding it strange to have to comfort her mentor. "It's my fault for not reading carefully. And I have only myself to blame for giving her the idea in the first place."

"Still," he pressed, "I want you to know that."

"I do, Dr. Shacklebolt, I promise," she reassured him, forcing a sad smile to find its way onto her lips to keep them from trembling with the tears now pooling up like bile inside of her. "I'll see myself out," she choked out, whipping her glance away from his so he wouldn't see her eyes begin to well up.

Only when she was safely outside with the door shut behind her did the floodgates break. Everything seemed to be crumbling around her: everything she'd worked for, everything she'd built, everything she'd gradually come to love as dearly as she never thought she might. Her head thrummed with self-defacement: _stupid, stupid woman, you should've read the fine print, you shouldn't have allowed Skeeter to get ahead of you in it..._

The painful reminders of her own shortcomings tailed her like an overeager dog yapping at her heels, lashing out at her and bringing her up to a boiling point of raging shame. How could she have allowed this to happen? And more importantly, what the hell was she going to do now? She couldn't go back to the Celtic scroll project, and she would go crazy if she was reduced solely to a periodic lecturer. It all still seemed like a distant nightmare, like something for someone else to contend with, but not her. There was no way this was happening to her.

"Hermione?" she heard Ron's voice sneak up softly behind her when she turned and found herself on Hogsmeade Lane. He'd been installed on a bench, waiting for her to exit so they could head off to dinner. She didn't answer, and, sensing something was wrong, he jogged lightly up to her, catching up to her and signaling his proximity with a hand on her shoulder. "Hermione, what's wrong?"

And then it hit her: reduced to tears, she was surprised he could make out even a word in the trembling stream that flowed through her mouth. "Project's off, Ron," she said, taking huge gasping gulps of air to keep her sobs from overwhelming her words. "McLaggen told Rita about us, and she pulled up some obscure policy that basically invalidates research if there's any romantic involvement in it. Project's off."

Ron stood dazedly for a second, Hermione's words sinking in, and it seemed to be her desperate crying that really drove it home. Gaunt with shock, he looked away without removing his hand from her shoulder. "This is my fault," he muttered, beginning to plunge into a nervous stammer. "He provoked me the other day, at the lab, and I snapped and couldn't resist bragging... That explains it!" he exclaimed, slapping a palm to his forehead. " _'It's confirmed'..._ I should've known by that alone that something was up." He spun violently toward her, gripping her two hands in his and looking at her with desperate, pleading eyes. "Hermione, please forgive me, if I had... if I'd gone with my brain instead of my gut..."

"Ron, please, this isn't your fault," she was quick to reassure him, wriggling a hand out of his grasp to lightly graze his cheek. "Just hearing that you'd confronted McLaggen made me happy. Just as it makes me happy to hear you say so strongly, so doubtlessly, that we're together, for anyone to hear. It's my fault and my fault only. I didn't read the full Research Policy Manual, and when I went to Rita with the Privacy one as payback for what she pulled with her little Tweet, I gave her the idea to find something to up-end me with." She chuckled bitterly and looked away, speaking with venom in her voice. "How ironic. The one time Hermione Granger _doesn't_ read herself stupid down to the last detail, and it's the one time it comes back to bite me in the ass."

"You weren't to know," Ron said softly, bringing his hand down to her elbow comfortingly, "how could you? How could you know she would be as lowhanded as this?"

"I should've," Hermione chuckled in the same frighteningly sour tone, "that's the thing. I should've known she would."

"Come," Ron said, beginning to lead her by the elbow down Hogsmeade, "let's get some dinner."

"I don't feel like dinner," Hermione answered in a shaky voice, reticent to move.

Ron paused, then tugged a little more vehemently: "Of course. I'm sorry. Of course you're not in the mood for dinner. That's perfectly okay, let's just walk you home—"

"Ron, please," Hermione said curtly, and in his surprise, he dropped her arm. "Please," she said more softly now, her voice cracking through with the beginnings of another wave of tears, "let me go home alone tonight, Ron. Please."

He looked in her eyes and, in them, found not dismissal but a genuine desire to be alone. He understood. Wordlessly, he pressed a small kiss to her cheek and, hands buried in his pockets, turned on his heels and walked away from her toward his flat, his head bent low in a position that made no effort to disguise his disappointment.

Left alone, Hermione could do little but amble aimlessly through the University center's cobblestoned streets, trying to quell the flurry of punishing self-reprimand that pummeled at the inside of her mind. Everything felt hopeless, with little purpose or direction now, so it was only fitting that her walk should be as driftingly scattered.

After a few minutes of treading distractedly, she unglued her gaze from the ground it had been unerringly sweeping and found herself looking up at the amber glow coming from the inside of the now-familiar Remembrall Records. It felt fitting to have ended up here, and she pushed the door open with what little force her tired arms could muster.

The store was empty except for a dutiful Tonks sitting behind the counter of the drinks bar in the coffeehouse section, sifting through some of the day's receipts to bring the accounts up to scratch. The music filling the shop was a slow, steady R&B rhythm. Tonks looked up when she saw Hermione enter and gave her a recognizing nod.

"Hey there," she greeted her, taking a pair of thick-rimmed glasses off her nose. She eyed them with contempt. "Don't tell anyone you saw me wearing these. I hate to think I'm getting old, but those little black numbers just swim laps around my eyes. Whatcha doing here this late, anyway?"

"Hey, Tonks," Hermione said quietly, plopping down on a stool at the bar with an air of utter dejection. "Just need a cup of something hot."

"Right on," Tonks said, already having switched on the coffee machine. "Need to talk about it?"

"Give me a few," said Hermione, and Tonks nodded to signal she understood. She worked diligently and quietly, her fingers stabbing at the little buttons and levers lining the overcomplicated mass of a coffeemaker, and at last came out with something that looked nothing like coffee but still steamed pleasantly.

"Steamed milk with a pump of vanilla," she explained, anticipating the question before it could leap from Hermione's lips. "You don't look like you need coffee, dear, you look like you need a hug. This is as close as it gets in drink form."

Hermione took a sip and realized Tonks was right: the creamy milk coated her tastebuds pleasantly, and it tasted like homely childhood with hints of sweetness mixed through the warmth.

Tonks let her have a few slow sips of it, watching her while reclined against the still-humming coffeemaker with her arms crossed over her chest, before lifting her voice again. "Feel like talking now?"

Hermione allowed herself one last swig from the tall mug before she found it in her to give what little explanation she could. "Met with Shacklebolt. Project's off, Tonks. I'm not doing it anymore."

"No way," Tonks whispered, and whistled disbelievingly when Hermione's grim look confirmed it. "Why would they do that?"

"Something about me and Ron's relationship violating some Impartiality Policy," Hermione shrugged, trying to conceal how much even repeating Skeeter's words stung at her insides. "So I guess this is as good a chance as any to thank you for everything. You've played host to a good part of this project, and I can't tell you how grateful I am."

"Nonsense," Tonks said with a raspberry, but in the shift of her glance Hermione could tell she was touched. "I love having all of you over. It's refreshing, and always great fun." She paused and looked at Hermione with a cocked eyebrow and a stern look. "I hope this doesn't mean I'll stop seeing so much of you around here."

"Not at all. You've weaned me onto this place, I'd never ditch it."

"Good," Tonks said with genuine content. Satisfied, she leaned back against the coffeemaker and watched Hermione finish her drink and put the mug aside. Now basking in a soulful jazz melody, Tonks grabbed the mug and crouched to place it in the dishwasher she'd load up with the next day's wares. "So what'll you do now?" she asked absentmindedly.

It was the same question that kept pounding at her temples, and she still hadn't found an answer to. It frustrated her: she wasn't used to struggling with finding answers to questions, and when the question was one so essential to her, it became even worse. "I don't know," she sighed, letting her head fall into her hands. "To be honest, Tonks, I don't feel like doing much just now. Maybe I'll lay low for a while."

"Absolutely not," Tonks protested, snapping back upright and giving Hermione that same reproaching glare. "Smart girl like you, Hermione, you gotta stay busy. I'm not letting you slack."

"Isn't it time?" Hermione said bitterly. "I've been working nonstop since before I entered uni. I haven't given myself a rest and ended up farther in an academic career at 25 than most people do their whole lives through. Don't I deserve a break?"

"You most certainly do," said Tonks, coming close and leaning over the bar with her familiar rag held fast in her fist. "Except this isn't a break, this is a surrender. You're not 'letting yourself rest'; you're giving up. And that, from you, Hermione, is something I can't allow."

"But I'm tired," Hermione said, and began to feel the ever-present tears collecting at the corner of her eyes again. "I'm tired, and I think I'm allowed to be. I've poured my heart into this, the deepest I ever have, and now I just had the rug yanked from under my feet. I haven't the slightest as to what to do beyond here, and to be honest, I'm not sure if I have enough energy to try to figure it out or at least care."

"Don't say that," Tonks reprimanded her softly, seizing her chin and tilting it gently upwards to have their eyes meet. "You're a strong girl, Hermione. I refuse to believe you'd let yourself get down by this. And there's never a shortage of worthwhile things to do, even if they don't revolve around you. You've gotta keep yourself occupied, stay sharp. Lose wind and it'll be harder to get back on your feet when you feel like it again."

Hermione mulled over those words for a few instants, stopping just short of admitting (though she already knew it to be true) that Tonks was right. But something inside her kept her, for once in her life, from being fully rational. Her emotions were in the pilot's seat, taking over any other impulse that might find its way to the forefront of her consciousness, and all she felt right now was weariness from the withdrawal that still wrenched her.

"Alright, Hermione, I'm going home for the night," Tonks's voice interrupted her from afar. Hermione lifted her eyes to see her getting into an oversized leather, faux-fur-lined jacket and a clumsily-knit woolen headband to cover her ears over with. "You can stay for as long as you want. I trust you to lock up behind me. Just turn out the lights and turn off the record player in the center counter." She got a few steps out the door before she came back in hurriedly, her keys jingling in her hand. "The keys," she said apologetically, tossing them to Hermione, who caught them and placed them in her lap. "Just leave them under the plantpot with the shrub with the little pink flowers in it. You'll know the one." 

Hermione nodded dutifully, and Tonks made as if she were to exit before she froze again and gave Hermione a last, lingering look. When she spoke, her voice was charged with patient meaning. "There are still things worth working for, Hermione. Just remember that."

Without another word, Tonks slipped out of the shop, leaving Hermione crouching over the bar. As the record player spun out a melancholy doo-wop tune, Tonks's words rang in her ears. _There are still things worth working for._ She stood up, walked over to the main record player, and lifted the needle, letting the song die out. She walked to the main light switch, flipped it off, and exited the shop taking special care to twist the key into its lock and deposit it under the plantpot. She walked home in the frosty night, and yet Tonks's words continued to echo around in her thoughts. _Just remember that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Brief housekeeping note— I'll be updating a lot less regularly because I'm on (safely social-distanced) holiday and not finding myself writing as much as usual what with all there is to (not) do at the beach! I'll be back to regularly-scheduled writing before the week is up. :) Sorry to leave you on this dour note... but things will begin looking up again in no time.
> 
> If you're interested in knowing what the songs mentioned here are (or the ones I was picturing when I wrote their epithets in)...  
> \- R&B: "Cry To Me", Solomon Burke  
> \- Jazz: "In a Sentimental Mood", Duke Ellington  
> \- Doo-wop: "Red Sails in the Sunset", The Platters
> 
> As always, thank you for your kind reads, kudos, and comments!


	42. Chapter 42

As he walked slowly to the lab on an uncommonly chilly morning, Ron's mind was a flurry of questions and incomplete phrases, struggling to make sense of last night's events and what that would imply.

_For us._

He felt a pang of dread in his stomach as he wondered whether the cancellation of the project would have any repercussions on his relationship with Hermione. She had made it perfectly clear that she didn't blame him for any of it, and that her wanting to be alone was not in the slightest synonymous with wanting to be _away from him_ , but he couldn't help but wonder. _That's what years of insecurity will do to you_ , a black little voice at the back of his head chuckled humorlessly, and he waved it off hoping its dismissal would somewhat alleviate the whizzing of unanswerable questions inside his brain.

Beginning to assign tentative answers to some of those questions, he began bracing himself for what he could expect, his steps tracing light sound patterns on the cobblestones of Hogsmeade Lane. He expected Hermione would need some space. He expected not to see too much of her at his flat for a little while, while she recovered and took some time for herself. He expected he'd have to avoid talking about the project, and instruct their friends to do the same. He expected he'd have to come to her aid whenever she needed comforting, but he expected she'd call whenever such a situation arose. He expected (he didn't, not really, but one had to be prepared as best one could for the worst possibilities, even if they made his stomach twist) she might break up with him out of a resentment she'd never forwardly admit.

What he would've never in a million years expected, however, was to open the door to the lab and see Hermione toiling over his workstation in the corner of an otherwise deserted lab.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, awestruck, as he trod gingerly toward her.

"I'm organizing your things," Hermione explained, and Ron almost keeled over backwards when he laid eyes on her outfit: the sight of Hermione Granger in frayed jeans, stained tennis shoes, a ponytail so thick it threatened to burst the hairband that held it, and a ratty old T-shirt promoting some academic fair or another was enough to send his heart racing.

She noticed him looking at her outfit, and blushed before rising to its defense. "I know I'm dressed for an outing of... planting trees, or painting houses, or... well, I don't know, work that's much more 'dirty manual labor' than cleaning up a lab workstation. But, in my defense, I've only ever heard horrible things about this mess, and I had to come prepared."

"Are you kidding?" Ron said, allowing himself a couple syllables of a laugh. "You look phenomenal. You might be doing more damage than benefit here, because if this is what it takes to get you into some jeans and looking this good, I'll never make an effort to stop making a mess."

"Watch it," she said, hitting him playfully on the chest with a stack of papers. "The Hermione Granger Clean-Up Service is _not_ a usual thing."

"Can we make those outfits more usual, though?"

"Let's finish this and then we can negotiate," Hermione smirked. She took no time before diving into the specifics of her tidying methodology: "Now, in this pile over here, I want you to sift through every single paper on your desk and put here the ones that are trash or we could do without. From the ones that _aren't_ trash, later we'll sort them into categories and finally put that file cabinet to good use—"

"Hold on, hold on," Ron cut her off before she got too far into the excitement this undoubtedly carried for her. "Hermione, don't get me wrong, and don't think I don't appreciate this, but I thought you wouldn't want to do anything for at least a few days after... well, after last night. Why are you doing this?"

"Something Tonks said," Hermione said nonchalantly, in a tone that suggested he'd be better off without inquiring into the specifics of this exchange. "There are things worth working for. And I suppose this is one of them."

"I– I don't understand."

"And that horrible Skeeter, too," Hermione continued, undeterred. "She seemed to gloat in the fact that you were on unsteady footing here at the lab. And I can't have that— I can't have anyone using _you_ as a punchline to some little vendetta. I can't. I'm tired of watching McLaggen step all over you, and I just want to make sure no one can ever get onto you for this ever again. I know I can't do your PhD for you, nor do I want to, but I think you'd be a lot freer to do it calmly without all the nagging and second-guessing, if no one could use your organization as ammunition against you. So," she gave a small, bashful shrug and gestured to the mess-in-progress around her, "I'm here."

Ron didn't know what to say: his words were caught in his throat, and he couldn't seem to get himself to look at her, fearing his emotion would betray him if he so much as caught her glance. "But, Hermione," he stammered, his voice creaking at the higher octaves, "what about the PR project? Or your own research, the one Bill's doing too? What about all that? I can't let you get sidetracked just because I can't get my shit together—"

"No, listen," Hermione hushed him, smiling gently. "None of that looks like it's coming together anymore, at least not for the foreseeable future. And you know what? That's sort of okay with me. If only one of our projects succeeds this year, let it be yours." She placed an affectionate hand on his cheek; finally, he turned his look to her, and she could see his eyes quivering with emotion. She gave his cheek an affectionate tap with her hand: "Now, c'mon, let's get to work and wipe the smirk off McLaggen's smug face."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for a prolonged absence— I came back from my holiday a few days ago, and upon return, I came down with a pretty nasty bout of stomach flu that kept me out of the action for longer than anticipated... So here's a little chapter to get us back on track for our regularly scheduled programming. Thank you for reading!


	43. Chapter 43

As she watched everyone stream into the now-long-familiar lecture hall, chattering animatedly, obviously under the impression that this was to be a meeting like any other, Hermione felt her heart twist with regret. She was about to dash every happy illusion they had all made when walking into this room —not just now, but at the beginning of last term, when everything had been set in motion—, and although she knew it was what had to be done, she couldn't help but feel terrible about it.

Seeming to read her thoughts, Ron sidled up to her and discreetly squeezed her hand. "You're okay, right?" he whispered. She took a deep breath, looked up at him, and nodded weakly.

"This is something I have to do," she explained, the reluctance evident in her voice, and Ron knew not to push it.

"I'm here," he reassured her, rubbing her arm affectionately with a calming hand, and she appreciated his presence there now more than ever.

When the last person had come in, she shut the door behind them (Neville, as usual) and cleared her throat to call the room to attention as she returned to her spot at the desk in front of the classroom. "If I could have your attention, everyone, for just a few minutes... this won't take long."

"Are you sure you don't want me to sit down?" Ron said behind her. "An illusion of professionalism, or whatever?"

"No, stay. I mean, if the project got cancelled because of you and I being together, surely nothing can come from fulfilling the terms of that cancellation," Hermione smiled at him, and Ron knew that she truly meant she needed his support up there.

Arming herself with valor, Hermione faced the room and drew in a sharp breath before beginning to unwind the dreaded words. "Thank you, everyone, for making it on such short notice. I have important news to share, and though they break my heart as much as I'm sure they will yours, I have to."

She read the worry upon everyone's faces now, and it made it harder to continue. Nonetheless, she steadied herself and plowed on. "A few days ago, Dr. Shacklebolt called off the publicity research project." The room began to rise up in an indignant murmur, but she hushed it with a flick of her hand. "I know. It's disheartening. But I owe you an explanation. It seems my relationship with Ron violated some sort of Impartiality Policy that the University has but I never bothered to read. Which means it's my fault— so, please, no one blame Ron for any of this. But it means that the project is cancelled— or, at least, that I'm no longer to direct it, and that it's suspended until Dr. Shacklebolt can find someone else to take it on."

She would've preferred a deafening roar now to the stunned, stony silence that permeated the room, and she felt burning tears begin to push at her eyelids. Her voice shook when she raised it again: "I know you all must have a million questions right now. I'm sorry to say I don't think I can answer many of them. The status of the project is nothing but uncertain, and it's not surprising that Dr. Shacklebolt has not chosen to share any further details with me after this. But rest assured that, if I hear anything, the first thing I'll do will be to let you know. I won't keep you in the dark regarding any information I get. But, for now," she said with a sad shrug, "this is all I have."

Her arms dropped limply by her sides and she felt herself breaking now. She'd disappointed this entire room of people, that much she knew perfectly well, and she had completely bungled a project she knew everyone had gotten just as invested in along the way. But what was worse, for her, was that the project had been the beginning link for many friendships, and with it gone, she didn't know whether they would hold just as much strength. She remained frozen in place, swaying slightly, in front of the room, dazed into a sad stupor and unable to eke out anything more than what she had already offered.

Then, wordlessly, Ginny slipped out of her seat and marched up to the front of the room, climbing the two steps that separated the teacher's podium from the rest of the lecture hall and wrapping Hermione in a tight embrace. Harry was the next to follow suit, scrambling to join Ginny at the front and in hugging their friend. Ron took no time to join in, and neither did the rest of the hall, which (gingerly, slowly, at different paces) all came together around Hermione at the front, waiting their turn to give her a quick hug and whisper a few thankful words in her ear.

Hermione didn't know when, but she'd started crying, and as the hugs continued to pile onto her, she found herself weeping even harder. When everyone had had a turn, she stepped back and surveyed them: a big, strange group of mismatched and oddly-paired scholars, who had all somehow come together because of her. "And I understand," she choked out, because the thought that this might be the last time she'd see all of them together was too much to bear, "if some of you don't want to see me anymore, if you'd rather we kept our relationships strictly professional—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Hermione, you're still a friend to all of us," Ginny interrupted her, and a murmur of assent rippled through the semicircle of people gathered around her. "We're not going anywhere, no matter if there is or isn't a project."

"Ginny's right," Harry piped up, stepping forward and putting an arm around his girlfriend's shoulders. "Why would you think we'd want to stop seeing you?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, her gaze breaking away to wander uncomfortably around the room's corners, "I suppose I assumed that with the project over..."

"Granger," a deep voice drawled unexpectedly, and everyone turned to look at Zabini in surprise, "even those of us that came to know you because of the project count upon you as a valuable relation, even beyond professional matters. To assume we would break contact is nonsense."

"I mean," came Ron's whisper over her shoulder, and she was suddenly aware of his hands placed lightly on her shoulders, "I don't speak whatever language Zabini talks in, but if —from what I could translate— even _he's_ saying he still counts you as a friend, they must mean it."

He was right, and Hermione knew it. She blinked away some of the tears and offered her friends a wavering smile, to which the crowd answered with one of their own. "Thank you," she said quietly. "Even if we're no longer working together, it means a lot."

"Who's to say we won't work together in the future?" said Neville cheerfully. "We're all academics, aren't we? We've got plenty of years to rot away here, who knows if we'll pair up for some thing or another?"

"Definitely," Luna chimed in. She looked straight at Hermione with huge, owlish eyes. "In fact, I was thinking I might like to bring something about language into my psychology graduate project in a few months. I would certainly need a faculty advisor."

"And all those budding barristers could certainly use a lesson on the importance of language," Harry offered up.

Even Zabini ventured to speak again, which was most unusual for one of these meetings: "Yes, and —though I am not sure you would ever need it—, should you ever come across the need for a mathematical model of any sort in your linguistic endeavors, you have a skilled and willing contact in the Mathematics Faculty."

Soon, the room was alight in a storm of potential collaborative projects everyone seemed to want to pitch to Hermione, and she found herself smiling more confidently with every new proposal. She felt more reassured than she would have if everything had gone according to expectations: the way she'd pictured it, they'd all hang their heads and walk out of the room with grudging acceptance, giving her nothing more but a polite nod as farewell. For once, her pessimism had worked in her favor: she'd prepared to be okay with the worst, and now that she had something better than she could've possibly concocted in her fatalistic mind, she felt radiant even in this sad context.

It took a few more minutes before they began taking leave, exiting the room gradually but not without a last reassuring squeeze of Hermione's hand and a kind word exchanged with her, all holding the promise that this was nowhere near the absolute end. Even Ron eventually slipped out, muttering something about a progress check with Sinistra, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before dashing out the door.

At last, only Ginny remained in the room. It felt natural: Ginny had also stayed behind on that first meeting, when she'd rescued her from Lavender's clutches, and she had been Hermione's first and steadiest friend to come from this whole ordeal.

"Not so terrible, was it?" Ginny said with a crooked smile when only she and Hermione were left in the room.

"You know me," Hermione said with a shaky laugh, "I'm always ready for the worst possible outcome."

"At least you know you don't have to do things all alone," Ginny smiled, and stepped closer to Hermione. "Speaking of which," she continued in a different tone, jumping onto the lecturer's desk at the front of the room and allowing her legs to swing over the edge, "spending a lot of late nights at the lab, are you?"

Hermione couldn't help but tinge pink. During the last few days, she had filled every small gap in her schedule with impromptu cleaning duty down at the physics lab. She'd come in whenever McLaggen and his cronies were absent, and usually it was just her and Ron sifting through the astonishing chaos that had piled up on his workstation, though sometimes Michael Corner joined them for a while. The work —which, by itself, already started late in faithful avoidance of McLaggen's lab hours— often carried them into the wee hours of the morning, and would often conclude with a tired Hermione (wearing the same T-shirt and stained jeans per Ron's continued request) crumpling into a heap at the workstation chair and Ron laying flat on his back on a significantly cleaner table, catching his breath before walking her home. Sometimes, they went home together; other times, they each ended up at their own flat. But no matter where the nights took them, they ended up happy: they'd spent huge bouts of time together, and Hermione was infused with a new sense of purpose, feeling like she was doing her part in something she was passionate about. It felt good, she thought, not to have everything revolve around her. It was certainly making her more serviceable, and the nights at the lab had become a way to relax and spend time with her boyfriend without being so wound-up about where her next steps were supposed to take her.

"I've been helping Ron tidy up," she admitted to Ginny, leaning back against the desk where her friend was perched casually. "I didn't want Skeeter or McLaggen to be able to use that as an excuse to pick on him anymore, or to have that hanging over his head as a looming threat of getting kicked out. So I decided I'd put my neat freak powers to good use."

"Well, I'm delighted you did," Ginny said, placing a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Now the only trouble will be getting him to keep it clean."

"Oh, I think he will."

"I wouldn't be so sure. From what he tells me, he'll trash anything just to see you get into that cleanup outfit he says you're driving him crazy in."

"All this for a T-shirt?" Hermione said, and Ginny threw her head back to laugh, in which Hermione joined with the same openness.

When Ginny steadied her posture once again to look at Hermione, she did it with an earnest, telling glint in her eyes. "You're a good person, Hermione. And I hope you know it, too."

"Oh, you're too nice to me..." Hermione mumbled, allowing her gaze to drift sideways in abashment.

"No, I'm serious," Ginny said, grabbing her wrist on the table and tugging on it lightly so Hermione would look back at her. "Look, Hermione, I know you're used to people telling you how brilliant you are. You've heard it all your life, I bet, and you probably will for the rest of it. But you're more than your intelligence. When I see you, sure, I see Dr. Granger: genius, PhD, once-in-a-generation talent. But I also see Hermione: my kind, loyal, funny friend. You're more than your intelligence, no matter if that's the single thing people compliment you on, and you need to know it. Because you're a good person, you truly are, and sometimes we need to be reminded of those things."

At a loss for words, Hermione turned to Ginny and hugged her softly, Ginny returning the hug closely. They pulled away and Ginny's hands remained on Hermione's shoulders: "And I promise you this isn't the end. Not by a long shot."

And somehow, maybe because it was Ginny and Ginny was never to be doubted, Hermione found herself believing the indeterminable —but comforting— implication behind her words.


	44. Chapter 44

The morning had been quiet, and Shacklebolt expected nothing different from the afternoon. Cleared of meetings, appointments, or any other event that involved an interaction, he had been free to sort through the to-do list that seemed to be ever-growing. It was a routinely sort of peace, of quiet work undisturbed by much else, and in his years as an academic he had come to love it, and appreciate the days —like this one— in which this occurred.

Which is why he was surprised when his secretary appeared at his door with two soft knocks. "Dr. Shacklebolt," he said, his face peering from behind the ajar door, "there's someone here to see you."

"It must be a mistake," Shacklebolt dismissed it, not even raising his gaze from his desk. "My agenda's clear today."

"Yes, I know," the secretary said irritably, considering _he_ handled that agenda in the first place. "That's what I told her. But she's pretty vehement."

"Who is it?" Shacklebolt said, and now he raised his head, his full stature coming into view with the straightening of his spine.

"A Ms. Ginevra Weasley, sir?" the secretary said tentatively.

Now, this was odd: Shacklebolt had certainly heard of her, had probably caught one or two of her football games before, and he was most definitely familiar with her brother, but they'd never crossed paths. What could Ms. Weasley want with him? "Send her in," he bid his secretary, if only out of curiosity to see what this could all possibly be about.

A tall, slender redhead looking visibly uncomfortable in a pair of burgundy slacks and a stiff white button-down (which Shacklebolt could tell was a far cry from her usual attire) materialized before him. "Dr. Shacklebolt," she acknowledged him politely. He nodded slowly and gestured toward an empty chair in front of him, which she scrambled to occupy.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Weasley?"

"It's about Hermione— Dr. Granger, sir. The publicity project she was working on. She let us know the other day in a meeting that she'd been taken off of it, and its future was uncertain."

Ah, so this was about that unpleasant business. "Most unfortunate," he said, regret apparent in his tone, "but it seems there was little I could do. I don't assume that, with a project canceled, you have much to ask me about it."

"No, not really," Ginevra said a bit too flippantly for the tone Shacklebolt usually encountered in his interlocutors. They both seemed to notice, because she looked away in embarrassment, and when she spoke again, she did so in an overly formal manner. "You see, sir, I just didn't think it would be right to call it off without fully hearing about everything it's already accomplished."

"Undoubtedly it is already very accomplished. Dr. Granger was never one to turn in anything less than excellent work."

"But I don't just mean the work, sir. I mean the collateral benefits, if you will. I speak for myself when I say that this project has given me a phenomenal chance to reflect critically upon the work I do and what it means to do it. And it's helped Hermione a lot too, sir: she finds it much, much easier now to step out of her shell and talk to people, or to form connections with them. And, of course, if you'll allow me this reach, it's been great for local business— all those coffee shop meetings, after all..."

"I'm sure everything associated with it is great, Ms. Weasley," Shacklebolt cut her off, "but I'm afraid it still breaches the Impartiality Policy. I'm not convinced we have enough of an argument here to bring it back."

"Of course not," she smiled sweetly, and even he was surprised that she had let down so easily. "I won't take up any more of your time. Good day," she said as she got up from her seat and exited the room without another word.

 _Odd_ , thought Shacklebolt as he returned to his work. Certainly, it spoke highly of Dr. Granger that people were willing to come in and expound on the beauties of her project, but what more could he do? Testimony from the women's football team captain wasn't exactly going to override Skeeter's viciousness on the whole subject.

He had only returned to his work for a few more minutes when his secretary knocked on the door again.

"Yes, Jefferson, what is it?"

"Dr. Shacklebolt, there's someone else out here to see you now."

"If it's Ms. Weasley again, you can tell her that I'm truly sorry that I can't do more for her, but—"

"No, sir, it's not Ms. Weasley. It's a Mr. Malfoy."

That was enough to gain Shacklebolt's attention. "Malfoy?" Lucius Malfoy held an important position on the University's Board of Trustees, which meant Shacklebolt had to be particularly flexible toward him or his son. "Well, best not keep him waiting."

A slim man with short white-blond hair entered the room after Jefferson had left it. He nodded politely to acknowledge Shacklebolt, who did the same, and bid him sit down where Ginevra Weasley had just a few minutes ago.

"Mr. Malfoy, I hope you and your father are both enjoying excellent health?"

"Absolutely, Dr. Shacklebolt, thank you very much for asking. I'll tell him you did."

"So, what can I do for him?"

Now Malfoy seemed to falter. "Sir, this isn't exactly _about_ my father. It has to do with the PR project that was recently called off."

Another one, then! "I hope I won't be a disappointment, Mr. Malfoy, but I'm afraid I doubt I can be of much assistance."

"I just wanted to let you know it's such a shame the project is being put down. You see, I've found that beyond just academic reflection, it has been a delightful opportunity to establish meaningful connections. Through the project, Dr. Granger has helped me sort out some interpersonal issues and has put me on a path where I'll be more cognizant of the relationships I establish, and I'm sure I haven't been the only one. This project has been a great avenue through which to establish meaningful, fulfilling relationships, even if it wasn't what it was intended to do."

"While I'm sure Dr. Granger has fostered this very environment, I fail to see why it is relevant to her case."

"Well, you know best in that regard. I merely wanted to put it out there. And now, I would hate to encroach upon any more of your undoubtedly busy schedule."

Just like Ginevra had done, Malfoy rose from his seat, gave Shacklebolt a last gesture of acknowledgment, and showed himself out without pushing any further.

This kept getting odder. Ginevra's visit had been strange enough by itself, but two of the kind in almost immediate succession? He hoped, however, that that would be the last of it, and continued wishing for this as he pored back over the book he was consulting.

It seemed like only seconds before Jefferson was back at the door.

"Yes?"

"Sir, someone else is here again. A Ms. Lovegood?"

 _Another one,_ Shacklebolt thought bitterly. _Will wonders never cease_. "Bring her in," he told Jefferson.

The eclectic young woman standing before him just instants later looked nothing like he'd expect an undergraduate paying a visit to the University's Head. Dressed in a flowing, floor-length gray-blue skirt and with arms bedecked in a plethora of bangles, the face underneath a mop of curly blond hair looked dreamily vacant.

"Ms. Lovegood, I don't believe we've met. Can I do anything for you?"

Unlike her predecessors, Lovegood didn't take a seat. She remained standing, rooted to her spot, swaying as if moved by an imperceptible breeze. And staring at him, Shacklebolt noticed, with absent but poignant blue eyes, that he would like nothing more than to have cast off him. "I think you're making a mistake," she said bluntly in a singsongy voice.

He felt himself rising almost to a point of anger. How dare an undergraduate just waltz in and speak to him like that? "Excuse me?"

"Canceling Hermione Granger's project. I think it's pretty dim of the administration."

"And why, may I ask?" Shacklebolt said sardonically.

"Because it's the only academic project I've seen that values standalone words," Lovegood said, as if that was supposed to make any sense to Shacklebolt. "It doesn't try to be something more than it is. It just is. And it allows me to just be, too. It encourages it. Nothing usually encourages _me_ -as- _me_ as much as this project has." She looked at him blankly. "And, besides, because its timeline perfectly aligned with the septentrional lunar chart. That's good luck for the University's cosmic vibrancy frequency, you know."

With that, she turned on her heel and drifted out of the office, leaving Shacklebolt to wonder just what in the hell the septentrional lunar chart was and why he should care about the University he ran's cosmic vibrancy frequency, whatever that was, too. Bewildered, he shook his head twice to convince himself he hadn't just witnessed an apparition, and attempted for what seemed like the billionth time to return to his work.

It was scarcely a few seconds when Jefferson was at the door again.

"Dr. Shacklebolt," he began, sounding just as dismayed as his boss was beginning to feel, "a Mr. Longbottom."

Shacklebolt didn't even bother to tell Jefferson to let him in: with a sigh, he let his head crash down onto his left hand and, with the other, gestured for Jefferson to just show him in already.

A chubby, dirty-blond man with a cheerful disposition twitched at his doorframe, still wearing what Shacklebolt recognized as a greenhouse apron and with a dash of dirt on his cheek. "Dr. Shacklebolt—" he started, clumsily spilling into an empty chair.

Shacklebolt gestured vaguely, dismissively. "I know, I know. The Granger project."

"I just thought it would be such a waste not to come to you and tell you how much this project means to me, to everyone in it. Dr. Granger has done a spectacular job of just bringing us all together. I can tell you it's been a massive confidence boost in my own work, especially as I'm just about to get my PhD. Because she makes you feel so valued, she motivates you to work harder. I can't believe I'm the only scholar for who it's worked wonders, and I think —well, I apologize if I overstep—, but I think that that ends up benefitting the University in the long run, right? To have scholars working harder?" He paused. "Dr. Shacklebolt, are you quite alright?"

Throughout this whole tirade, Shacklebolt had hidden his face in his hands, and was clenching his jaw out of sight. He had scarcely looked at Longbottom, and it took him a few seconds to realize he was speaking to him. "Huh? Yes, I'm alright." Longbottom stared at him dully from across the table. "Is that all you have for me?"

"Yes, I suppose, but you will think about it, won't you?" Longbottom said hopefully, and all Shacklebolt could do was gesture exhaustedly toward the open door in hopes that he would take the hint.

The rest of the afternoon proceeded in much the same fashion: Shacklebolt could scarcely have a moment to himself before Jefferson would bring another overeager young man or woman in to talk wonders of Granger's project. It was when a sturdily-built sandy-haired man who went by Mr. Finnigan decided crude expletives were acceptable to pepper into a hearty defense that Shacklebolt decided he'd had enough.

"Alright, alright, I'll undo it," he cried, and Finnigan stopped in his tracks hearing it. He showed Mr. Finnigan out somewhat forcefully, and called for Jefferson immediately after.

"Jefferson, please call Dr. Hermione Granger and tell her to make her way to my office as soon as humanly possible, because I can't take it anymore. And, for the love of God, if anyone else turns up, please tell them the issue has already been resolved."

Jefferson gave a slight bow of the head and headed off to place the call to Dr. Granger. Between relief and frustration, Shacklebolt ambled over to the chair behind his desk, allowed himself to collapse down onto it, and shut his eyes, wondering just how many years off his life this entire afternoon had taken.

* * *

"Yes, of course, I'll be there in a few minutes," Hermione said into the phone before withdrawing it from her ear and pressing the red button to hang up. "Huh. Weird."

"What is it?" Ron asked from underneath the desk, where Hermione had sent him with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge to scrub off the residues from countless spillages Ron had never bothered to do much with other than hastily wipe a paper towel over them.

"It's Shacklebolt's office. His secretary says he'd like me to come in right now."

Ron rose from where he was crouched, careful not to bang his head against the table's ledge (he'd had two incidences today already, and did not want a third). "That _is_ weird. What for?"

"I don't know. He didn't say," said Hermione, sticking her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and bringing her hands up to her hair to undo her messy ponytail, which boasted random hairs sticking out all over. "Well, I suppose I'd better get down there quick," she said as she bunched her hair together again and remade the ponytail into a tidier image.

"You don't think he's going to penalize you, or kick you out, or anything, right?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," Hermione dismissed him, but the possibility hadn't occurred to her and now it had made her stomach gurgle with dread. "He said he'd let me off with just his verbal warning. Why would he change his tune now?"

"Skeeter," Ron suggested with a shrug, and Hermione felt a hateful shiver travel down her spine at the mere mention of her name.

"Well, anyway, his secretary said he wanted me there stat. So I'll head down there. Are you sure you can manage on your own?"

"I'm sure," Ron said, bringing up his hand in a mocking salute. With the sudden movement, his elbow bumped into a bottle of glass-cleaning spray on the table, knocking it over. With the tips of his ears faintly reddening, Ron placed it back into a stand. "Disregard that. Yes, I'll manage, for as long as it takes you to get back. Don't forget I owe you dinner."

"How could I? Makes the cleaning worth it," said Hermione, beaming. She approached him and raised herself slightly onto her tiptoes to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'll see you later."

"Are you sure you wanna go up there in jeans?"

"It's not like I have time to change, is it?" she said, examining her outfit and already working past the shame she would undoubtedly feel when she turned up dressed like this when she normally wore dry-cleaning-worthy garments to her meetings with Shacklebolt. "Anyway, you like it, don't you?"

"I like it because I'm the one that gets to take it off," Ron said, leaning forward to give her another slight kiss on the lips. "It's much easier to just pull off a T-shirt and jeans than all those little buttons and clasps in what you usually wear."

"Be decent," Hermione chastised him jokily, smacking him lightly on the arm with the back of her hand, before she exited the lab onto Hogsmeade Lane and toward the executive building. 

When she arrived at the administration, Jefferson ushered her in without any waiting, which only told Hermione how eager Shacklebolt was to see her and did not at all help with the anxiety now beginning to build up at the pit of her stomach.

"Dr. Shacklebolt," she said respectfully when she entered the familiar office, hoping the collected tone would be a good enough distraction from the rest of her informal attire. The older man gestured for her to sit down before him without a word, and Hermione remarked on how worn out he looked this afternoon. Rather than asking, she launched into an explanation of her dressing: "Pardon the clothes. I've been helping Ronald clean up after himself at the lab so Sinistra won't penalize him, and when Jefferson called and said you needed me on such short notice—"

"It's of no issue," Shacklebolt assured her, and now she felt mildly assuaged by the reappearance of his usual, comfortable smile. "If anything, it's refreshing to see you look so different. And I'm glad you're helping Mr. Weasley. From what I hear, Professor Sinistra is also quite pleased."

"I'm glad," Hermione said, feeling a pleasant tingle in her chest at that affirmation. "Can I help you in any way, Dr. Shacklebolt?"

"I'm going to keep it brief, Dr. Granger: it's about your publicity project."

Now her stomach sank: she'd been hoping he had moved past it, that he'd be soliciting her help for something else to show her he still trusted her, and yet they seemed to be stuck at the same point. What if Ron was right? What if he was going to bring in more serious repercussions?

But his next words brought forth such a surge of elated relief that she immediately dissolved every single bad thought she could've had prior to this point: "It's back on."

She could hardly believe it! This wasn't anything she'd ever thought had the slightest chance of happening, yet here they were! Before she could open her mouth to say anything in response, Shacklebolt held up a finger to signal he wasn't quite done. "But I need a draft soon."

"Yes, sir," Hermione sputtered, still too delighted to do much else but be bewilderedly compliant. "Yes, of course."

"By April, we'll say?"

"You got it. That is more than doable for me, Dr. Shacklebolt."

"Splendid. And, please," Shacklebolt switched tones, his voice sounded pained, "tell your friends the project is back on. They don't need to come around here anymore."

Hermione was confused: "Come around here, sir?"

"My afternoon has been filled with every single person who's participating in your project coming in to tell me how wonderful it is and how much of a fool I was for shutting it down. And, though I will admit, part of it was that they annoyed me to the point of submission, to hear all of these brilliant young men and women come in and spout wonders about everything you and your project have done for them has led me to believe that it would be a disservice to the academic community I serve to remove something that so clearly benefits it. So I've chosen to overrule Ms. Skeeter this once, even if she'll rain down her hellfire on me, because I do believe this is a project that's worthwhile, and believe me when I say it was never one I wanted canceled."

Hermione was stunned. "But what about me and Ronald? Won't that be an issue?"

"I worried about that too. But I think I can get the University Board lawyers to draft a waiver in which you assure that the relationship will have no effect on the impartiality of the research, and agree to subject your research process to scrutiny from an impartiality examiner who will make sure it is of no effect."

"I can do that."

"Magnificent; then, we are settled."

Hermione got up to leave, feeling a flood of joyful relief overtake her chest. The warmth only increased when she thought of what her friends had done for her: risking ridicule, they had dared to face against Dr. Shacklebolt (Hermione could only imagine how Luna-vs.-Shacklebolt had gone down), all to speak highly of her and her work. She was sure this is what Ginny had referred to, and she felt nothing but a swell of pure gratitude that they had wanted to do this for her. This project's maximum legacy, she was sure, would have been to introduce him to this group of incredible people.

Suddenly, she had it. "Dr. Shacklebolt, if I may make one more request..."

"Go ahead."

"I know we had originally decided that the project would center around language in academic discipline, but I think I would like to center it on the people that make up my research database and what makes them unique, standouts in the University community."

Shacklebolt cocked an eyebrow. "Isn't that dangerous to the impartiality agreement? What would you write about Ronald, after all? And about the rest of your friends?"

"It won't have anything to do with me singing their praises or anything, I promise, just describing them as people from what I've garnered in my investigation. And, of course, as people in relation with the discipline they study. But you wouldn't have to worry about my personal opinions filtering in beyond whatever subjectivity it takes to paint a verbal portrait of them."

"I suppose every research method has its subjectivity, after all."

"Indeed it does. And people _love_ hearing about other people. Just think of projects like Humans of New York, or Studs Terkel's _Working._ People like it when there's a human component. It might actually work in our favor, marketing-wise."

"But what about highlighting the academics? I thought that's what you were all about."

Hermione smiled to herself. "Academics are insanely important, of course, Dr. Shacklebolt. And you would've never caught me saying any of this before this year. But, in my experience, what has really taken my enjoyment of the University to an unprecedented level are the people."

Shacklebolt, sensing the change in his pupil, couldn't help but smile as well. "Then I suppose you have my green light."

It was all Hermione could do not to jump right up and throw her arms around him: "Thank you, Dr. Shacklebolt! You won't be disappointed."

"I never am, Dr. Granger. I never am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the last super-huge plot-based chapter, I promise... We're getting back to the emotional stuff everyone (including myself) is here for soon enough. :)
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your readership, your kudos, and your kind comments!


	45. Chapter 45

"I hope it goes well," Hermione mumbled nervously as she and Harry returned their menus to an attentive waiter.

"It will," Harry reassured her. "How couldn't it, after all the cleanup work you've both done?"

"I hope it's enough to carry him over," Hermione said, sipping from a wineglass filled with ice and water.

"It will be," Harry said.

Since it was now the beginning of March (which meant Sinistra's opening of opportunity for Ron's improvement was up), Ron had been summoned by the Physics Faculty to an informal hearing of some sort where a committee would be discussing whether he would be welcome to return next year or must drop the program. This was a routine procedure: every student on a PhD track had to undergo the committee appearance yearly, but to most, it was merely a formality on the path to academic achievement. Not to Ron, or at least not this year: though everyone was reticent to say it, this committee hearing was where everything was on the line.

Harry and Hermione, who had undergone their fair shares of routine hearings, had spent the last few days helping him prepare. Ron and Hermione had finished tidying the lab station (which, word on the street was, had greatly pleased Sinistra) and, along with Harry, had helped Ron rehearse in case the committee asked him to step to his own defense. This was the fateful day, and after making sure Ron was all set and his tie wasn't lopsided, Harry and Hermione had sent him on his way toward the administrative building.

Which had left them both gut-wrenchingly nervous and with little else to do.

So they'd decided to pass the time with an impromptu lunch at Godric's. With little activity —it was a Wednesday, after all—, they'd had no trouble squeezing in and were now sitting across from one another at a lavishly-set table, desperately trying to keep their legs from bouncing under the tablecloth.

Sensing that continuing the conversation on the subject of Ron would only make both of them more nervous, Harry changed topics with a radiant smile: "So, it's been a while since we hung out just the two of us, huh?"

"It has," Hermione acknowledged, relieved for the change in subject matter. "In fact, I think the last time we were sitting like this at a table we were poring over a list of potential names for the project."

"Time flies," said Harry. "We've come such a long way."

"Seems like forever ago, doesn't it?"

"It really does. You've really turned into a whole different person."

"Oh, I don't think I've changed that much," snorted Hermione, but a look down at her clothes revealed just how much she might have. At the beginning of the year, she would've never thought of having an outing at Godric's without being impeccably dressed in at least a two-piece suit, and yet here she was, sitting at the same upscale joint but in a pair of plum culottes and a short-sleeve off-white cashmere sweater. Sure, it was still much more formal than what most anyone would consider everyday wear, but in her own relativity, she'd toned it down considerably.

"I'm not saying it like it's a bad thing," Harry said. "I just mean you've grown a lot. Maybe that would've been a better choice of words."

"Maybe," said Hermione, letting the stem of her wineglass roll between her fingers. "But I'm not exactly taking offense. I like myself better now, too."

"Good. I'm glad," smiled Harry. "And you've made Ron grow a lot more than he probably realizes, too. Just the fact that he cleaned up after himself is huge progress."

Hermione laughed briefly: "I coerced him into it, don't let him make you think he did it out of his own free will."

"Well, then, coercion works wonders sometimes. But it isn't just that— I think you've both helped one another put your guards down. You're less uptight now, and he hides behind his jokes a lot less. It's wonderful to have seen you open up like this."

Something yanked at the corner of Hermione's mind, something that hadn't reared its head for at least a few months. "Speaking of being open... Harry, there's something that's been bothering me for a while now."

"What is it?"

Unable to explain where this had come from, she took a deep breath and steadied herself to continue: after all, she'd come this far, and there was no turning back now. "Why didn't you ever tell me you were famous?"

She could tell Harry was stumped. She struggled to pick apart his expression: he looked more confused than angry, but it was clear she had caught him totally off guard.

"What do you mean?"

"The Potter double murders? The whole soap opera all around that? And I had to hear about it from Rita Skeeter?"

Something in Harry's expression shifted now, but still —Hermione remarked upon with some relief— he didn't look angry. Whatever he was gearing up to say would have to wait, however, because the waiter reappeared with their plates and set them reverentially on the table, offering a respite from the conversation. Harry and Hermione quietly thanked him before he disappeared back into the kitchen, and when he was gone, Harry spoke.

"I just didn't think it was important."

"But we're friends, I mean— I don't blame you, really, and I've never pried, but I _was_ a little bit hurt that even Rita Skeeter knew more about it than I did."

"Well, but Rita Skeeter has made her profession out of being nosy, hasn't she?" said Harry without any malice, and Hermione lowered her eyes in shame.

"Right. Sorry. I don't know why I ever thought I was entitled to it..."

"No, you're my friend, you have every right to ask. It's just— well, you never did," said Harry with a boyish smile, and Hermione knew he was right. She'd never asked, so why should he have answered? "But since you are now, I don't have any issue with telling you."

"You don't have to, Harry, not if you don't want to—"

"I want to," Harry said vehemently, and Hermione took that as a cue to listen. Harry sighed. "I wanted to leave the past behind whenever it wasn't necessary to bring it up. Everyone back at school, since we were all from the same parts and such, knew about me because it was practically impossible to conceal. Especially when my aunt and uncle made it their personal standard of notoriety. But then I moved in with Sirius, and it suddenly seemed a lot less important. I wasn't an extra kid to tot around for shock value, I was their son. Just Harry. And I liked that, a lot! So that's what I wanted to emulate as soon as I got to uni."

"But didn't people remember you?"

"Eh, it sort of wore off after a while. Gorier cases come up, and yours is old news. Not that I'm complaining, of course. But to put it simply, to be constantly reminding myself of my little misfortunes was a tangible link to my aunt and uncle, to the time where I wasn't treated as a child so much as a media prop. So, I thought, why not leave that behind whenever I could? Being in the spotlight all the time gets exhausting."

"Of course," Hermione said mutely.

Harry seemed to read her mind: "Don't feel insensitive, Hermione, please. You didn't know, and that was fine. If people like Rita Skeeter still wanna see me as that front-page photo of the little kid with the big green eyes standing alone in his crib, that's fine by them. What I like about you, about my friends, is that you've always seen more— or, in your case, never seen that in the first place."

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry," Hermione said, but Harry reached out to give her hand a light squeeze with his fingertips, giving her a reassuring smile.

"Don't be. Really. I'm glad we talked about it."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, their forks clanging against their plates in between bites. When Harry had cleared half of his plate, Hermione felt another inquiry begin to claw at the back of her mind. This one, months in the buildup, was far more pressing, and she couldn't ignore it now that it'd grabbed hold of her. Maybe it had been that, at the beginning of their lunch, Harry had reminded her of when they'd last sat over a table like this, which was where her current question had originated. In all cases, it was worth asking now.

"Harry..."

He looked up from his food. "Hmm?"

"Now that we're on an honesty streak, there's something else I'd like to ask you."

"Fire away."

"When we were talking about who to include in the project, and we brought up the physicists... Why did you suggest McLaggen before Ron?"

Now Harry had none of the laid-back collectedness he'd exhibited with Hermione's first question. His face had taken on an uncomfortable quality, and he shifted in his seat. "Hermione, I'm not sure I'm the right person to talk about this."

"No, please. Any time anyone brings this up it inevitably gets shut down before I can find out any further. I've heard it from Dean already, this stuff about 'not being the right person'. But then who is? You're a good friend, Harry, the first friend I had here, the first friend I trusted here. I can hardly think of a 'righter' person to answer this, and I can't stand to keep being put off like a kid. So please, Harry— tell me?"

She looked at him with such a pleading expression that Harry, inevitably, caved.

"Okay, Hermione. I'll tell you. But promise me this stays between us in all possible measures. And promise me you won't retaliate, or freak out."

Retaliate? Freak out? Hermione had expected this to be about some schoolboy rivalry, but Harry sounded a lot more serious than she could've anticipated, and it was putting her on edge. But she needed to know. Especially after seeing how Harry had reacted to it, she had to know.

"I promise."

"Alright, then," Harry said resignedly, his reluctance clear. "Just be glad we're sitting down."


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger/content warning: mentions of alcohol, roofie-ing, and a description of the beginnings of a non-consensual sexual encounter.

_Granger is bored out of her mind, and feeling more out of her element than she ever has before. At this point, she's resigned herself to standing by a far wall, nursing a plastic cup with only water in it, observing the partygoers stumble by at various levels of intoxication, and wondering why she came in the first place._

_She overheard the girls in her Classics lecture whispering about it, utterly oblivious to the class content, and she couldn't help but be piqued by their chatter. Apparently, it's the undergraduate event of the term, and just about anyone in the first three years of uni would be there._

_She doesn't know what exactly it was that compelled her to come too, because Granger isn't usually very vulnerable to peer pressure, and she doesn't exactly care for what others consider a normal uni experience. But something about this particular one stirred something in her. Maybe it was the feeling that she was wasting away, becoming a spinster well before her time. Maybe it was that she feels so tired of being so alone all the time: she's a free agent, and she doesn't mind working by herself, but sometimes she wishes she had more friends than just Harry Potter, who's the only class acquaintance that she's managed to evolve into something more. She supposes that's what's led her to be here, but now she regrets it._

I was an idiot to think this would change things _, she thinks, observing the careless young adults careening by in a tangle of limbs with a mix of disgust and jealousy._ I don't dance, I don't drink, and I don't have too many friends. Of course I'm gonna stay by myself. Nobody here knows me.

_"Bored?" a deep voice booms from close to her. She doesn't turn her head: whoever it is is, in all probability, talking to someone else. But the voice insists. "I'm talking to you, Granger."_

_She turns her head and is met with the sight of a tall, burly straw-blond guy with a half-filled cup in his hand and a relaxed expression. She has an excellent memory, so she has no trouble recognizing him from the first semester of first year, when they both took Professor McGonagall's undergraduate research seminar: it's Cormac McLaggen. This isn't necessarily a pleasant revelation— back in the seminar, McLaggen used to sit at her table and flirt with her, and she was convinced the time his hand had landed on her thigh "accidentally" had been no accident at all. Her experience with him has been less than likable, but she can't deny a small part of her feels at least a smidge of relief at encountering a familiar face._

_"Not much of a party animal," she replies, thinking it's an innocuous enough reply to be friendly without giving him the start of any ideas._

_"I can tell," he smirks, and hurries to follow it up with a, "but no offense."_

_"None taken," Granger responds. "I know I'm not much of anything but a bookworm, to most people."_

_"To be fair, you don't try very hard to be anything else," says McLaggen, and Granger has to admit that much. He joins her against the wall, leaning back to become a spectator of the party rather than a participant in it. "Drinking?"_

_"Hm?"_

_"What's in your cup?"_

_"Oh, just water," she says with a nervous little chuckle, swirling the contents of her cup as if she had anything to mix in._

_"See, Granger? You don't try very hard," McLaggen says with the same scolding tone, and it's making her feel patronized. She's not sure this is the type of interaction she's been holding out for. "You need a real drink."_

_"Oh, I— I don't drink," Granger says in the same meek voice, feeling almost ashamed of something she normally takes pride in._

_"C'mon, Granger, just one cup," McLaggen insists. He begins tugging her toward a long table with swarms of people around it, which she can only assume is the drinks table._

_"Cormac, I really don't drink," she says, struggling to get away from his grasp, but he's much stronger than her, and soon she finds herself standing squarely by the drinks table, against her will._

_"You will tonight," he says like it's a sentence, already mixing some type of soda with the clear liquid in a sharp-angled liquor bottle. "Learn to let go," he says like it's an order as he hands her the cup._

_Granger catches a whiff of the cup's contents and instinctively wrinkles her nose at the piercing strength of the alcohol's scent. "What's in this?"_

_"Who cares? It's a drink."_

_She's debating whether to hand it back to him, place it on the table, or throw it at his face when something makes her halt._ You want to fit in, don't you? _a little voice in her head nags her, a voice that, if it belonged to a person, would be nudging Granger toward the plastic cup._ Well, here's how. Think about it: Cormac's popular, well-liked, and he just made you a drink. This could be your ticket to where you wanna go.

_But does she want to go anywhere, really? Is this nothing more than a childish cry for attention? She raises her gaze and sweeps the party with it: in every corner of the darkened room seems to stand a group of people, whether it be a band of girls jumping drunkenly up and down out of rhythm with the music or a couple snogging sloppily under the loosening effects of the alcohol. Sure, she feels somewhat revolted, but at least they look like they're having fun. Which she's not._

_She looks down at her cup again, which taunts her with the continued unfurling of its stinging smell._ I suppose one can't hurt _. She shrugs, pinches her eyes shut instinctively, and tilts the cup to allow some of its contents to stream down her throat. It burns: it feels like every inch of her throat and mouth is raw, like the flesh on them is peeling off as the drink finds its way down to her stomach. McLaggen's laugh worms into her ears, and she can't decide whether he sounds like he's laughing with her or at her._

_"See?" he says in an overpleased voice. "That isn't so bad, is it?"_

_It's not just bad, it's terrible. But she's made her decision, so she merely forces her mouth into a sloping grimace she hopes is close enough to a smile and takes another swig. Again, fire cascades down her throat, and she has to try really hard to keep herself from retching._

_"Finish it," McLaggen coaxes her, and it sounds more like a command than a suggestion. She downs the remains of the drink and almost throws the cup aside, feeling tears come to her eyes with the unfamiliar and overwhelming burn of the booze in her mouth. "Good girl," he says when she's done, and she's struggling too much with the sensation to retaliate for how awful those two words are coming from his lips."Now you've had your first real drink. How was it?"_

_Granger wants to leave him without an answer, to just walk away and drink bucketfuls of water to wash the sting out, but then the buzz begins. A tingling traveling from her toes to the crown of her head, imbibing every part of her with a sensation of lightness and culminating in a pleasant hum that seems to fill her head. All of a sudden, she finds herself relaxing without even being aware of it, her shoulders rolling to release pent-up tension. The alcohol is hitting her unusually fast, but then again, to have a stone-sober person suddenly drink a whole cup of lemonade mixed with a copious amount of tequila in three gulps would understandably incite a swifter, stronger reaction._

_"Feels good, doesn't it?" says McLaggen, who's noticed the drink beginning to take effect on her. "Want another one?"_

_She doesn't respond, because the room has begun to rock lightly under her feet, and everything is beginning to blur at the edges. McLaggen takes her silence as a yes, and gets to work on concocting another drink like a potions master poring over a cauldron. He loads up on the liquor this time, so much it's almost straight and only slightly watered down by a stale-tasting soda, and Granger is struggling so much to find her footing in this new surrounding that she doesn't notice when he slips something into her cup from the pocket of his jacket, something that isn't on the drinks table._

_"Bottoms up," he says cheerfully as he places the cup in her hand. Granger feels like a zombie: her motions are slow and not truly her own, she feels detached from her own body, and she feels as if she tried to speak right now her tongue, still thick with the remains of her last drink, would come unraveled. Robotically, she raises the cup to her lips, unaware of McLaggen's hand beginning to snake around her waist to hold her upright. She drinks._

* * *

_"Hide me," Ron begs Harry as he manages to leave Lavender behind yet another corner. It's almost like divine intervention when his best mate appears in front of him, leaning against the glass door that separates the outside yard space from the riot indoors._

_"Lavender?" Harry asks, and Ron's nod is all he needs as confirmation. "Step right in," he beckons him, slipping into the indoors space of the party grounds with ease. Once inside, Harry tugs Ron along until they reach a secluded area across from the steps that lead to the upstairs floor, where there's no one but a huddled gathering of Mathematics students trying to gear up enough courage to amp up the booze in their cups. Lavender will never think to come here looking for them._

_"Thanks," Ron says, out of breath, as he crouches with his hands on his thighs to regain some of it._

_"No problem. Wanna tell me about it?"_

_Ron runs through it in his mind: at the beginning of the night, he'd made the fatal mistake of running into Lavender, Parvati, and the rest of their friends. Everything had been amicable to begin with: the girls were nice to him, the breakup wasn't even mentioned, and for a moment, he'd almost thought he could get to be friends with them now that he and Lavender were history. But then Lavender had had one too many cups of something and she'd cornered him at the far end of the yard, and she'd started spitting (sometimes literally) in his face every complaint she'd pent up since he'd told her he didn't think they should be together anymore. He didn't understand where this was all coming from: they'd split up in May, at the end of the spring term, and they'd both had the entire summer to mull it over. She'd even told him she agreed, that now that they were out of school and in uni they should maybe think about seeing other people, so why she was shouting at him like this was beyond all his comprehension._

_And then she'd leaned in and tried to kiss him, and that's when he'd started running._

_He knew he had Lavender and the rest of them hot on his heels, so he'd threaded his way around the party taking care to slink in between as many groups of people as he could to try to throw them off his scent, until he'd found Harry. And Harry always had a place to go._

_"Let's not talk about it," he says, shuddering to remember the chain of events that had culminated in his ending up here, and Harry nods. That's what Ron loves about Harry: he never nags, never asks tough questions, never pushes him. He's just a good friend (his best one, in fact), and it's phenomenal to have someone to rely on for things like this._

_"Spot any girls yet?" he asks Harry, hoping to steer the conversation into more conventional party grounds._

_"Nah. Not too interested," Harry says, and Ron can tell he means it. Harry's never been much of a ladies' man, but there's always been some crush or another— and, as of when Ron last checked, he was pining after some third year he only knew as Cho._

_"Cho?" he asks, his curiosity spiking._

_Harry shakes his head. "Back with Cedric." He doesn't seem too bothered about it, though, which is weird, because Ron has been there for all the angst fits in which Harry laments that he wasn't born Cedric Diggory. But Harry merely looks around the party. "Hey, Ginny's in uni this year, isn't she?"_

_"Yeah, why?" Ron says, totally oblivious (though whether he's choosing to be oblivious is something not even he wants to find out, if Harry's implying what he thinks he's implying)._

_"No reason," Harry says, suspiciously nonchalantly. "Maybe I just wanna hang out with a different Weasley for once."_

_"Fucker, I'm your favorite Weasley and you know it."_

_"For the time being, perhaps," Harry smirks and Ron almost wants to kill him— which is the best kind of interaction. "But who knows if forever?"_

_"_ I _know. Even if you end up marrying my sister or something, I've gotta stay at the top of your list," Ron says, and chooses to ignore when Harry turns red at the mention of Ginny._

_And it's great that he's chosen to ignore it, really, because now something else catches his eye. He'd know that frame anywhere, because its owner is the bane of his existence whose only goal in life seems to plague every single lab segment they have together._

_"Hey," he nudges Harry in the ribs to get him to look in the same direction, "what's McLaggen doing?"_

_Ron knows Harry doesn't like McLaggen either, because the football team works a lot slower whenever the git is spewing orders of some sort, which for some reason he feels entitled to do._

_Harry focuses on the figure of McLaggen, which seems to be moving a lot less nimbly than as per usual. "I don't know," he says, squinting, "but it doesn't look like he's alone."_

_Now the figure of McLaggen comes more clearly into view, and Ron realizes Harry's right. McLaggen is stringing along the figure of some half-drunk girl, whose feet are dragging on the floor and whose head is lolling against McLaggen's shoulder. Looking over his shoulder covertly, as if to check he's out of sight, McLaggen begins heaving the girl up the steps and toward the upstairs floor._

_"Who is that?" Harry asks, struggling to see beyond the glasses that have become dirty with the party haze._

_"I don't know," Ron says cautiously. "But something about this whole thing does not bode well."_

_They stay rooted to the spot as they watch McLaggen finish carrying the girl upstairs._

_"Maybe he's just helping whoever it is find a place to lie down...?" Harry says weakly, tentatively, with no hint of actually being convinced of that._

_They hear a door shut and a lock slide into place from upstairs._

_"I'm going up," Ron says urgently, and thunders up the stairs without checking whether Harry is right behind him._

_The upstairs corridor could double as a brothel: couples moan and writhe against the walls, elated at what little privacy a party like this can offer, but Ron doesn't want anything with any of them. It's a locked door he's looking for, and along the hallway, only two doors aren't swung wide open (though, by the sounds of it, Ron can tell that more than two rooms are occupied). He checks the first door: he finds nothing there but shelves of sheets and towels. He closes the linen closet, relieved that his search has been so easy, and runs to the other closed door._

_As expected, the doorknob doesn't relent when he gives it a twist. The silence from within the room is worrying him: no overeager twenty-year-old would be that quiet when starting a sex session. He jiggles the doorknob with desperation, but the lock doesn't give._

_"Open up!" he yells as loudly as he can, jiggling the doorknob furiously with one hand and using the other to bang as hard as he can on the door. The couples along the corridor are separating to eye him with contempt, hating him temporarily for interrupting their lusty lull. "Open up, McLaggen!"_

_It seems like he spends an eternity just racking up a storm on the closed door before he hears the lock slide again and the door swings open only a slit. In the slit, a part of McLaggen's face appears. "Leave, Weasley," he snarls._

_Ron tries to push the door open, but it doesn't budge. No doubt McLaggen is pressed up against it on the other side, fervently trying to close it again to be left to whatever it is he wants to do. And he might achieve it: he's significantly stronger than Ron, that much you can tell from looking at them alone, and he's pushing like his life depends on it. But then Ron thinks of the poor girl in there, no doubt languishing on the bed half-unconscious, and he can't stand it. He feels a surge of strength course through his body, releases his push a little bit to draw back, and comes back forward shoulder-first to burst the door inward and gain entry into the room._

_The scene is exactly what he expected it to be: the bedcovers are strewn around messily, McLaggen's belt lies coiled like a resting snake on the floor and his fly is down, and there's a girl on the bed with a half-undone shirt and her skirt unnaturally hiked upward. Ron feels his stomach sink when he recognizes her: it's Granger. They don't talk much, but he knows her, because he's known her since the day of their first year orientation and her face hasn't left his memory since. And he can't fathom the thought of McLaggen ravishing the very face that every so often pops back into his thoughts._

_He rushes over to the bed and begins shaking Granger back into consciousness. "Granger, Granger, wake up, we've got to get you out of here..."_

_Granger starts to mumble something unintelligible, and when her eyes flit slightly ajar, Ron can't see anything but the whites of them. She's far under, that much he can tell._

_"McLaggen, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" Ron snaps at the burly blond standing awkwardly near the door, with the expression of someone who's been caught and doesn't like it one bit. Granger keeps babbling, and Ron cradles her head in his arms, trying to get her sitting slightly upright. Her shirt is still flapping open, and he feels a wave of shame when he can catch a glimpse of her light beige bra. He starts buttoning the shirt clumsily, trying to keep himself from looking even if it makes the process harder._

_"I'm not doing anything," McLaggen spits at him from across the room. "Not anymore, anyway."_

_Now the last button is snagging into place, and Granger's shirt is crooked, but at least it's closed. "You're a rapist," Ron says between gritted teeth as he smooths down the skirt to make sure it's covering her legs. "You're a fucking rapist, McLaggen."_

_"You have no proof," McLaggen smirks, crossing his arms. "It's not like she'll remember anything."_

_"But I will," Ron says, bending over with one arm supporting Granger and the other one trying to slip her feet back into her shoes. "And I'll report it."_

_"To whom?" McLaggen smirks, looking dangerously cool. "This University doesn't exactly take sexual harassment complaints very seriously. No uni does, really."_

_"You can't get away with it, can you?"_

_"And what are you gonna do about it?"_

_"I'll—" Ron begins, but his incipient threat is interrupted when Granger begins to stir._ _Still in Ron's grasp, she only manages to let her eyes flutter slightly open before a violent shudder racks her body and she bends forward, releasing a jet stream of vomit onto the room carpet. Ron closes his eyes but doesn't let go, feeling like she'll fold forward if he doesn't keep her supported to a certain extent._

_Granger finishes vomiting and slowly rises back up, looking groggy as she settles into Ron's hold. Her eyes begin to widen as she regains consciousness, taking in the room around her with an expression of pure bewilderment. Ron gives thanks to any higher power that she's thrown up whatever it was McLaggen slipped her._

_Granger begins to come to her senses, and her stream of words returns with a somewhat more coherent outlining. "What's going on?"_

_Elated that she seems to have recovered so fast, Ron opens his mouth to fill her in, but McLaggen is quicker. With a dramatic flair, he runs over to her and throws himself at her feet, bearing an expression of pure concern._

_"Granger, thank God you're alright! I've been looking all over for you."_

_"What happened? Where am I?" slurs Granger, bringing a tentative hand up to the back of her head to quell a migraine that is no doubt thumping at the walls of her craneum._

_McLaggen leans forward and passionately grasps her two clammy hands. "I'm just glad you're awake now. You left your drink on the table and Weasley walked by, and I lost sight of you and he'd brought you up here when I found you again. I don't know what it was he slipped into your drink, or something, but he roofied you and brought you up here."_

_Ron has never felt more inclined to murder, but before he can retort, Granger recoils and slinks away from his grasp, scooting as far as the bed allows her. His heart breaks when he looks at her features and finds the purest, undistilled mixture of fear and disgust._

_"Granger, I—" he begins, reaching out a consoling hand to her, but she only shifts backward, and he freezes in his tracks._

_"Get away from me," she pants, looking genuinely frightened._

_"You heard her," comes McLaggen's low voice, as he comes back into view and steps behind Granger, his two hands snaking onto Granger's shoulders. "Leave us alone, won't you, Weasley?"_

_Ron is torn: it's clear Granger has believed every word of the bullshit McLaggen's spewed and the last thing she wants is to see Ron's face, but he can't leave them alone because he knows well enough that McLaggen will take advantage of it._

_To his luck, Harry appears in the doorframe, flanked by Dean and Seamus. "We came as fast as we could," he explains without moving, he and his two friends examining the scene before them. "I thought I'd bring them along, in case we needed reinforcements."_

_"No need," McLaggen says calmly, though his eyes are blazing with red murder. "Weasley was just leaving."_

_"And so were you," says Seamus as he steps into the room, rolling his sleeves up as he eyes McLaggen menacingly._

_As if in a staging, everyone seems to have something to do. Seamus marches up to McLaggen and seizes him by the arm: he's shorter, but he's stocky and he can pull the weight, so he pulls the seething Cormac out forcibly without letting go of his arm, walking him all the way down the stairs and as far away from Granger as he can possibly achieve. Harry rushes over to Granger, who breaks into tears and throws her arms around him when she recognizes him. Harry sits on the bed and rubs her back, coaxing her to vomit if she still feels like it, murmuring comfortingly as Granger clings to his neck like a castaway to a balsa raft. Dean ambles over to Ron, who is frozen in place in the center of the room, unable to process what just happened and what part he's played in it._

_"Ron, mate," Dean says, clapping his back softly, "you did what had to be done."_

_"I know," Ron says hoarsely, unable to look away from Harry and Granger._

_Granger seems to notice him looking, because she raises her head and points shakily at him. "What's... what's he still doing here?" she says with so much hatred that Ron just wants to crumple over right there. "Get him... get him out, Harry, please."_

_Harry looks at Ron questioningly, and reads the expression in his friend's eyes. He beckons Dean over, who doesn't hesitate to take over for Harry. At this point, Granger doesn't seem to mind: she's just happy to have someone by her, and Harry knows she'll be in good hands with Dean. Harry and Ron step out of the room, side by side, and linger just beside the door._

_"What's the matter with her?" Harry asks. "Why'd she want you out?"_

_Ron tells him: he tells him what he saw when he forced the door open, how he re-dressed Granger and supported her through her first round of vomiting, and how as soon as she stirred back into consciousness McLaggen hijacked the situation to paint himself as the chivalrous gallant and Ron as the rapist. He tells Harry how disgusted Granger looked, and how pleased, in contrast, McLaggen was. "She told me to leave, Harry, but I wasn't going to," he justifies himself where there's really no need to. "I wasn't gonna leave her alone with that... that..."_

_"I know, and I'm glad you didn't," Harry says reassuringly. "Seems like I brought the guys just in time, huh?"_

_"Perfect timing," Ron says, and releases a breath that has been caged in his chest throughout this whole ordeal._

_Harry can sense he's still worried, that he's still in the clutches of that same dismay that overtook him when McLaggen's twist made Granger look at him like that, and he pats his back fraternally. "Don't worry, Ron. As terrible as it is that she won't remember anything, it also means she won't hold you accountable."_

_Ron shakes his head. "Don't tell her."_

_"What do you mean don't tell her?"_

_"I'm sure she remembers. And if she's lucky enough to forget, don't make her relive it."_

_"Ron, I don't think that's our call to make—"_

_"McLaggen won't come near her after this. And she's got you to make sure of it."_

_"She's got you, too."_

_Ron shakes his head again. "No. I'm not going near her, not while she still thinks I have anything to do with it."_

_"But you don't, Ron, how could she hold you to it?"_

_"I know it's not rational. But it's what I want. So, please, don't push me onto her. Let things flow organically. Unless she asks about me, don't remind her that I exist— she'll feel bad if she can't remember where she's supposed to know me from. And let's try to put this behind us, okay?"_

_"If that's what you want," Harry shrugs, not entirely convinced but not entirely up to disputing it either. "But aren't we gonna report this?"_

_"I will, tomorrow morning," Ron says with resolve. "But McLaggen's right. This place seldom does anything about sexual harassment. McLaggen even had an M.O, by the looks of it— just think of how many girls he's practiced on and gotten away with it. I'll report it, alright, but this place's negligence is bound to bury it. I wouldn't be surprised if they don't even reach out to Granger."_

_"But if they do," says Harry, pacing his words, "and they call her in, will you step up to it? You're the only one that saw him in action, after all."_

_"Of course I will," says Ron so hastily that Harry can't help but feel like he's offended him. "Of course I will. I don't want to Pontius Pilate this shit, I just want to make it as non-disruptive for Granger as we can. But if they reach out to her, the first thing I'll do is step right up to corroborate my account again. And I'll report it tomorrow morning, Harry, you know I mean it."_

_"I know you do," says Harry, and it feels good to have his friend trust him so fully._

_Ron nods somberly, then gestures toward the room, from which a wave of faint sobbing has begun to be heard. "Better get back in there. You're her friend— she'll need you."_

_Harry's mouth hangs briefly agape, and he looks like he wants to say something more before he nods dutifully and disappears back into the room. Ron stays outside and hears the crying get louder before it dissolves into hiccuping, a surefire sign that Harry has managed to calm her down. He wishes, with every aching fiber of his body, that he could follow Harry and comfort Granger, but he knows she'd only hate to see him right now._ Let her sleep it off _, he thinks as he begins making his way down the stairs._ Let her have the space she needs. _She's in good hands with Harry, and she doesn't want to see him. He knows she'd only disturb her if he showed himself again._

 _But his heart is breaking, because the image of Granger recoiling from him and staring up at him with terrified eyes is permanently burned onto his eyelids and the forefront of his mind, and he knows it will replay like a movie whenever he tries to get to sleep._ There's no question of it _, he resolves as he walks off the party grounds, not even caring to take any precautions against Lavender._ For as long as Granger needs, for as long as it takes her to want to seek me out again, I'm not going to go near her.

_And, as the image once again takes over his mind, he feels a solitary tear roll down his cheek and can't help but despair at however long that might be, at how that however long might just possibly be forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Sorry for the delay in updating, especially after that last cliffhanger, but I began yet another academic year and found myself swamped with all the responsibilities that entails.
> 
> We are now in the final run of the story and I'm excited to crank out the remaining 12 chapters!
> 
> As always, thank you for your kudos, comments, and readership. :) I hope this story continues to be something you enjoy.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential CW: mentions of the events of the previous chapter and a discussion of insecurities.

Ron let himself quietly into Hermione's flat, knowing the sound of the door opening and shutting would be enough to announce his arrival. He walked to the small dining space by the kitchen, and was pleasantly surprised to find the table already set and two plates of steaming pasta waiting on it, a candle as the centerpiece and Hermione standing stiffly to one side.

"You spoil me," he said as he went up to her to kiss her cheek, and she blushed contentedly as she took a seat across from him.

"So," he said as he sat in place and, with a flourish, laid the ornate napkin waiting on his plate (Hermione always went the extra mile...) on his lap, "what's the occasion?"

"The hearing?" Hermione said in a light, almost tinkling tone, as if reminding him.

The corner of his mouth tilted upward: "Oh, that," he said, and stabbed at the pasta with his fork, beginning to wind the fettuccine around it. He continued to eat in silence, and if he was conscious of Hermione observing him, he didn't let it on.

"So?" she finally burst after a few moments of silence, startling him. "How'd it go?"

He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the napkin. "Pretty routine, I'd say. We've all been through about a thousand of these already, haven't we?"

"Well, yes, but—" She didn't need to say it: there had been a lot more at stake here than at any other point in their past experiences.

Ron caught on immediately and proceeded to elaborate. "It didn't give me a bad feeling, not at all. Sinistra spoke very highly of me, she sounded proud, and I didn't feel like the committee was predisposed against me, which I felt might have been the case if I was on really bad standing. But, then again, those fellows must be absolute magicians at concealing their expressions."

"You don't know how relieved I am to hear you say that," Hermione sighed, and her chest decompressed with a sigh she had been holding ever since she'd gotten back.

"Yeah, so am I! We'll hear from them in the morning, but until then, there's nothing we can do, is there?" Ron said, cheerfully attacking his pasta once again and getting a few mouthfuls in before noticing Hermione was uncharacteristically quiet. She'd barely touched her pasta, in fact, and to have her cook without eating any of it was indicative of something below the surface. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Hermione said, but her voice came out pitchy.

"Something's off— you've made dinner, but you don't seem to be in a particularly good mood."

"No, Ron, really, it's nothing," Hermione insisted, but her gaze darted everywhere except where she knew it'd meet Ron's.

"Hermione. Tell me."

He sounded to stern and certain that Hermione knew she must. All she could muster out, almost unintelligibly, was, "Harry told me."

"Harry told you? Told you what?" Ron said, abandoning his fork by his plate to focus on her.

"McLaggen," the three syllables came out, almost in a whisper.

"Oh," Ron said dully, and the room became thick with silent tension and the pressing question of what to do, what to say, next. "He told you."

"He did," Hermione said, before scrambling to defend their friend. "He only told me because I asked him to, Ron, believe me, he told me because I didn't give him an alternative. Please, please don't get mad at him— he'd never have told me if I hadn't all but wrestled out of him."

"No, I know," Ron said, and Hermione could tell he wasn't mad at Harry. "He's kept it all these years and never caved. If he came out with it, he must've had a pretty darn good reason to do it. I know how hard it is to resist you when you're insistent," he flashed her a wink.

She kept her gaze glued to the floor, staring into her lap dejectedly: Ron's attempt to cheer her up clearly hadn't been effective. He pushed the plate of pasta, with still a few more noodles on it, forward toward the table's center. "We should probably talk about this, shouldn't we," he said, already knowing the answer. Hermione's slight nod was all the confirmation he knew he'd get.

Wordlessly, he got up and grabbed both plates (his almost done with, Hermione's still intact) to take them to the kitchen and place them under a plastic cover to keep them from getting ice-cold. He headed toward the living room, only a few feet away from the makeshift dining space, and sat at the far end of Hermione's long gray couch, his hand placed in a position that seemed to beckon to Hermione to join him. She did, dazedly, putting one foot in front of the other until her feet took her to the couch and she could let herself fall back onto the cushions.

Silence hung tentatively over them before Ron spoke. "So. You know."

Hermione nodded. "I know."

"And are you okay?" Ron asked, searching his girlfriend's eyes for any sign that it might be better to stop here.

Touched, Hermione nodded jerkily to try to keep tears from springing to her eyes. "I think so. It didn't escalate irreparably, and besides, I don't remember anything, which I think is what makes me more upset than the actual events." She paused and bunched up a throw pillow in her fist until her knuckles turned white. "I can't believe I didn't remember anything."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Ron said quickly, leaning forward to reach for her hand. "Roofie drugs aren't exactly known for going easy on you. They're supposed to knock you out for somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve hours. It was a miracle when you sat up and vomited."

"How do you know so much about this?"

"I had a little sister and a secondary school full of arseholes," Ron said, a glimmer of his usual witty nonchalance shining through. "You learn to pay attention to how those douchebags brag about their conquests so you can make sure your little sister never puts herself in a situation where she's prey for them."

"And I was, because I never knew it," Hermione said bitterly.

"I think you _did_ know," Ron said gently. "Please, stop me if I'm overstepping, but I don't think what happened that night was that you _didn't know_ so much as you were willing to override your common sense to feel a little less excluded. Was that it?"

Hermione nodded, slowly. She _did_ remember the beginning of the night, at least, before McLaggen had played the creative barman, and all she had taken with her from that party was a feeling of staggering solitude that she would've done anything to eradicate. Well, turns out she had.

"Was this why you and McLaggen hate each other?" she piped up suddenly, recalling a conversation she had had with Dean and Seamus by the football pitch's edges that day that Ron had hit her with a ball in the face.

"He's never been my favorite person, to begin with," Ron said, scowling even at the thought. "But after what I saw he wanted to do to you and after he tried to pass it on to me, we became something close to mortal enemies."

"That's how Dean and Seamus put it," said Hermione, a faint smile twitching with the memory of that long-past day.

"Well, they were right. By the way, did Harry tell you how Seamus socked the bastard after he escorted him from the room? Gave McLaggen a black eye he almost skipped lab for the following Monday. It was glorious."

"He did not," Hermione said, laughing briefly, and Ron smiled: if she was feeling better, this might get a lot easier.

"Well, he should have. He did what I wish I had."

"So why didn't you?"

"Well, I had to stay behind and make sure you were okay."

"Even if I didn't want you there."

A pang of a long-vanished pain resonated through Ron's chest. "Yes, even if you didn't want me there."

"And I believed him—"

"You were drugged—"

"No, I know, but I still believed him." She paused to let her anger at this simple fact seethe through her. "And you stayed away all these years? Why?"

Ron shrugged. "I knew it was irrational, but I wanted to give you your own chance to decide whether you wanted anything to do with me. _If_ you remembered me, of course. And if you didn't," he said, and a boyish grin now settled over his features, "I suppose I wanted to give us a chance to meet one another properly again. Blank slate."

"It seems so weird to me that I met you for the first time at some ghastly undergraduate party, and I don't even recall it," Hermione said, swinging her legs onto the couch and tucking them under her into a more comfortable position.

"That wasn't when we met for the first time," Ron said. He only got a puzzled look from Hermione as a response. "What? You seriously don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"That I was the first person you met here!"

She stared back at him blankly, and he shook his head in mock exasperation.

"Blimey, Hermione, for such a smart person you sure do have a shit memory."

"Lay off," Hermione said, the throw pillow she had been bunching up just minutes ago now flying at Ron's face to hit him with a soft thud. He emerged from behind the pillow laughing, returning the throw to land the pillow in Hermione's arms.

"I had the honor of meeting you first, you really don't remember? When Neville almost beheaded you with a Frisbee during first year welcoming day? You were sitting under a tree, reading a book, all by yourself? You told me your name was Granger?"

Now the shadow of a memory was beginning to form in Hermione's mind again, and that sense of _déjà vu_ she'd had all those months ago when Ron had collided with her on a walkway, also attributing it to another one of Neville's blunders with the Frisbee, made sense.

"I can't say it's crystal clear, but something's coming back to me alright," she said, and Ron seemed elated to hear it.

The mood considerably lighter, they both settled comfortably back into the couch, Hermione's legs tucked neatly under her and Ron's sprawled as far as they could go, taking up half the sofa. With her head propped up on her hand, Hermione leaned back and took an instant to look at the man before her: tall, lanky, with a face speckled in red and a mop of the same bright color on top of his head, a long nose and a goofy smile that seemed to be the permanent state of his features. All of a sudden, she felt the three words rise through her in an almost-uncontrollable surge that she couldn't stop until they were almost at the very tip of her tongue: _I love you_. Alarmed at how they had seemed to come out of nowhere and she would've surely blurted them out had it not been for a last-second splurge of self-control, she nonetheless mulled them over.

_I love you._

What would it feel like to say them, to allow them to dance along her tongue and lips instead of barricading them from seeing the light of day? What would he look like when he heard it? Would he say them back? Was it too soon? The suddenness and spontaneity of the emotion had stunned her, sure, but it finally felt nice to have a word to comfortably ascribe to the swell in her chest every time she so much as thought of his name.

He noticed her eyeing him, and his lopsided smile cracked open into a bigger grin. Hermione felt her chest constrict with the very word she had just discovered within her, and again that terrific desire to just come out and say it almost overpowered her. However, she managed to stem it, and channeled it into a different route in the shape of a question: "And was it all worth it?"

"What was?" Ron said, and for a moment Hermione thought she saw something like disappointment flicker across his face. Did he— was he expecting more? Was he expecting her to say it, maybe, even?

"That horrible night with McLaggen, all those years of staying away after it... Was it worth it?" she said, sidling up to him on the couch until both her knees touched his right one.

Ron mimicked her, bringing his splayed-out legs together to face her entirely and grasping her other hand in his. "Of course it was," he said, momentarily letting go to brush a strand of hair from her face. "Even if the hearing went badly, even if I lose my grant, even if I get kicked out and can't come back next year, it will all have been worth it for you."

She let his words hang between them for an instant before she leaned right through them and kissed him softly, hoping those three pesky words would somehow come across with only her lips on his. He returned the kiss, the hand that had brushed her hair away now traveling to the back of her hair to tangle in her chestnut locks, deepening the touch of their kiss as the seconds ran out.

When they pulled apart, there was none of Ron's usual roguish confidence in his features: his brow had clouded over with a queasy, dissatisfied look Hermione seldom saw him bear.

She scarcely had to ask what was wrong before he let her in on it, his voice tremulous: "And yet... I can't help but wonder... will I be enough for you? Even if I get kicked out, even if it turns out I wasn't as brilliant as you thought me?"

"I could just hit you, Ronald Weasley," Hermione said, but her actions revealed none of her words' aggressiveness, as she pulled him closer to her and rested his head on her shoulder, one arm draped around him and the other toying softly and gently with his hair. "If anything, _I_ should be the one worrying about measuring up. Whatever could make you think you wouldn't be enough for me?"

She felt him shift under her embrace. "Insecurities, I s'pose."

An image flared in her mind, Lavender sitting at her library table during her interview with Zabini and rattling off a list of Ron's negative qualities as if it had been black water seeping out of a backed-up sewer. She felt a mixture of emotions: first, heartbreak that Ron had been treated that way in the bond he was supposed to draw the most comfort from; and second, anger that Lavender seemed to have gotten away with it and left it imprinted on him.

"Need to talk about them?" she asked him, her caresses incessant.

She felt him shift again, this time his head on her shoulder, in an evident nod. "You know how it is. Sixth of seven kids, five overachieving brothers to measure up to, and a mum who loves you but for whom it feels you can never do things good enough for. Don't get me wrong, my mum is wonderful and she's a great one, but all the 'why can't you be more like Bill or Percy' gets to you sometimes, even if she doesn't mean it the way it hits you.

"And then secondary school, and you've got a best mate that's some sort of celebrity, and it's a lot to put up with, y'know? Because even if he doesn't want it, even if he hates it, he's the one in the spotlights and you're the one relegated to the sidelines. Harry's a phenomenal friend, so I don't at all blame him for all the attention I know he hates, but it does things to your self-esteem when pretty girls come up to you and ask you to introduce them to _your friend_ like you're some sort of gatekeeper into the magical world of Harry Potter instead of, oh, I don't know, an actual human person.

"Then I started dating Lavender. And I have no idea why I dated her, maybe because she was the first girl that expressed interest in me, _Ron_ , and not me, _Harry's best friend_. Maybe she sensed I'd be easy prey because of that, I don't know. The point is, it wasn't a good experience. It got to be a nasty co-dependence and more physical than it was emotional. And she was abusive— verbally, mostly, but sometimes physically, and I had to fight really hard to get rid of her just because it felt like it was either _her_ or the usual loneliness, the usual wallflower-ness. That's why I kept coming back to her, I guess, even if she was so terrible. Did I tell you she got into my apartment last term, after our session with Luna, when you and I were still at that 'will-they-won't-they' stage?"

Hermione stiffened. "Oh, my god. You didn't."

"Well, she did, and she was drunk as hell and even though we weren't together she kept going on and on about how no one was ever gonna love me except for her and how you were eventually gonna get tired of me and—" he paused to keep his voice from shaking too badly, and Hermione could tell it was laden with the effort not to cry. "Well, you can imagine, you go through years of an on-and-off relationship hearing that, you kinda start to believe it."

"Oh, Ron," Hermione said softly, tightening her hold, but something seemed to have let loose in him now, because he kept talking with a mix of rage and heartwrenching ache.

"And then it turns out I'm a fucking _failure_ at physics, at the one thing I'm good at, just because I'm a walking disaster who can't keep his shit ordered, and who might lose his research grant at the University and then I'll be the _deadbeat brother_ , the dull spot in a family of shining stars—"

His string of words dissolved into a fit of racking sobs, and Hermione only pulled him closer, the hand that wasn't lost in his hair rubbing his back gently. Ron seemed to have run out of steam, like a wind-up toy that's clacked out of impulse, and he was crying into Hermione's shoulder, softly but steadily.

"Ron," she said sweetly, in a voice that was almost a whisper and was meant for his ears only, "Ron, you're a wonder. You're not unremarkable, and you're not ugly and useless or whatever else Lavender said, and you're not stupid. Not to me."

"You mean it?" came three broken-down words from in between the flurry of sobs, and Hermione looked down to find a pair of limpid blue eyes, glazed over with still-pouring tears, staring supplicantly up at her.

"I mean it," she said, trying not to choke up herself. "I mean it, Ron, wholeheartedly. You're one of a kind to me. You're funny, you're handsome, you're brilliant... You make me a better person, and I mean that. You're my safe place and my companion, the first person I always go to for any reason. That's you, Ron, that's you and no one else. I know hearing these words won't magically fix it—"

"—but it helps," he completed the sentence, simultaneously confirming what she hoped she was accomplishing.

"I'm glad it does, because I mean it," she said gently, feeling him nestle his head deeper into the crook of her neck and melt into her arms. "You're a wonder, Ron."

She didn't know what came over her then, but the surge of words was back, and this time, her lips couldn't wall them in— they burst out freely, naturally, as if she'd said them —instead of just thought them— a million times before. "And I love you."

Her chest felt as if something had lifted from it, and yet her stomach was wrung with the anticipation of his reaction. But it needed not be: Ron didn't react, instead staying cooped up in her embrace, getting the last stream of tears and sharp inhalations out of his system. Hermione thought he might not have heard her— an impression she felt was confirmed when he rose up from the couch and made a beeline for the plates of pasta.

"All that crying made me hungry," he explained with a half-giggle-half-sniffle, and he stuck both plates in the microwave and stood guard by them, watching the plates spin inside in preparation for taking up the eating again.

Hermione was torn: a part of her felt relieved that she hadn't gotten a reaction, which was the whole reason most people dreaded saying _I love you_ in the first place, which had certainly been her too. But, on the other hand, Ron seemed to have brushed it off entirely— it might as well have gone in through one ear and come straight out the other. That stung.

She continued thinking about this through the rest of their interrupted dinner, finally managing to get a few forkfuls of pasta in and smiling affectionately when Ron got up and went to the pot, still on the stove, for seconds. It was a good thing that neither of them felt particularly talkative: at this stage in their relationship, they felt comfortable enough just sitting in silence across from one another, and the strength and intensity of their couch conversation had made any further trivial words needless. It was just as well for Hermione, who kept going over the storm of conflicting thoughts in her mind and trying not to lose it over any of the overthinking byproducts beginning to take shape in her mind.

But it took until bedtime for her fears to be assuaged. With neither of them particularly keen on staying up late, they went through their nighttime routine straight after dinner and slipped into bed considerably earlier than they might have done on a regular day. They both laid down facing the same way, Hermione draping an arm around Ron's torso to spoon him closer, wanting to bring home the comfort she'd intended her words to carry with the close, loving hold of an entire night's rest. Even if she had to spend the whole night awake pondering whether her three words had been a blunder or quite the opposite. But she didn't have to worry much longer, because as soon as she switched off the lights and wished Ron a good night, settling around him into a comically disproportionate hold that, because of her small size and his large frame had her more as a jetpack than a big spoon, she could've sworn she'd heard him enunciate in a whisper, "I love you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe you all an apology for disappearing off the face of the earth... The start of my school term hit me with full force and I had a research paper due at the end of my first week that meant I unfortunately had to channel all of my writing time and efforts into it! 
> 
> Hopefully the exigence of the academic portion will decrease and I'll be able to update less erratically from here to the end of our lovely Romione's story. :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	48. Chapter 48

Despite the fact that they were becoming increasingly usual, Hermione was sure she would never get tired of these wake-ups. It was the most delicious process: she would stir lightly from sleep without an alarm clock to rouse her, and then the sensations would start flowing into her consciousness gradually. First, the hearthy warmth of being enshrouded in thick covers. Then, the solid presence of Ron next to her— sometimes his arm draped around her, sometimes (like this morning) his body encased in her embrace. Then, the human warmth emanating from him. Then, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept (she usually woke up first), the rhythmic puff of air escaping his nose keeping beat with the pace of his movements. And lastly, wonderfully, though this was less tangibly sensory than the rest, the realization that she was waking up next to the man she loved.

 _Love_.

Such a strong, strange word, yet one that she felt more comfortable uttering after allowing it to tumble from her lips the prior night. She had never been the type to stress about saying "I love you" first, nor had she thought it was a particular point of contention in her relationship with Ron, but still, saying it had brought a wonderful lightness to cast a rose-tinted hue over the two of them.

She allowed a hand to drift to the tuft of hair just above Ron's right ear, letting her fingers brush through it affectionately. Roused by it, Ron shifted and turned to face her, still groggy from barely-interrupted sleep.

"Morning," he mumbled, and Hermione greeted him with a sweet, brief peck on the lips. She felt him smile under her kiss, and when she withdrew, his eyes fluttered a bit more open. "I could get used to that," he said, and his speech was less slurred now, "instead of that dratted alarm clock."

"So could I," she said, settling comfortably into him. They moved from a spooning position into a close-knit tangle: chests pressed together, legs intertwined, and arms draped around each other, Hermione had settled her head into the comfortable nook between Ron's head and shoulder, a place second only in comfort to his chest. "I don't want to leave this bed."

"Then don't," Ron whispered, his hand tracing lazy circles onto Hermione's back. The sensation of his fingers grazing her skin, even through the layer of her pajama top, was temptation enough for her to give in to his request. "Got anything to do today?"

"Not for a while," she said, mimicking his hand's movement by beginning to draw patterns along his chest. He shuddered slightly under her: a surefire sign that he was enjoying it. "I can stay a while."

"Then do."

"You're being very convincing."

"I've been saying it since day one: it's the striking good looks and magnetic personality," Ron said, echoing the phrase he had used to pull McLaggen off of her the day she had initially approached him at the lab, and the memory set off in Hermione's head with such pleasure that all she could do was channel it into another kiss.

"I love you," he muttered when she pulled away, their lips still lightly grazing.

She smiled: "I love you," she responded dotingly, and leaned in for another, deeper kiss.

They could stay in bed for ages: lounging in one another's arm, laying absentminded caresses on one another, basking in one another's warmth. This was a morning ritual that the old Hermione could've never fathomed: _Granger_ accepted no less than the earliest, most effective wake-up, and everything was efficiency from then. _Granger_ trooped through her morning routine with the rigor and discipline of a soldier going through a drill: shower-get dressed-do hair-make bed-make breakfast-brush teeth-leave apartment. But _Hermione_ , this new woman that no longer went through life like a long to-do list, gave herself more leeway. She let herself remain in her boyfriend's arms, let herself stay in bed for as long as she humanly could, gave herself those _five more minutes_ that Granger would've considered an indulgence.

Suddenly, as if rupturing a dream, Ron's phone pinged loudly from the nightstand on his side of the bed. She knew one of the reasons, however trivial, that he liked sleeping over at her place was that she had a nightstand on either side of the bed as opposed to the single one Ron had, sandwiched between his bed and the far wall. She attributed this to her eye for order: she had a big bed, and it just felt unbalanced without a nightstand on either side to provide decorative equilibrium.

He reached over to the table where he'd left his phone charging, rolling over onto his side. He unplugged it from the cable and squinted his eyes to squeeze out the last remains of sleep to be able to see the screen properly.

"It's just a text from Corner from the lab," he said, puzzled. "He says to check my email."

It dawned on Hermione: this must be about the hearing. No doubt, if Corner was working early hours at the lab, Sinistra would have had a verdict from the hearing committee already, and must have mentioned it in passing to her student. "Open it," she urged Ron, peering over his shoulder.

"I'd like to delay my doom as much as possible," Ron said, an edge of nervousness lacing his voice now. "I didn't think they'd be this fast with it."

"They said they'd have the verdict this morning."

"Well, yes, but I thought that was just one of those things they _said_ , y'know?" Ron said, but the joke landed flat: he hadn't truly meant it, so nervous was he feeling now.

"Ron, just open it."

"I don't want to. What if it's bad?"

"But what if it's good?"

He paused, smiled, and cracked another joke: "Schrödinger's email."

She recognized the reference and parried it with one of her own, one he had introduced her to in the first place. "Weren't you physicists super into the Uncertainty Principle? Well, here you have an opportunity to conquer it."

"I can't argue with that," Ron said, his thumb now hovering over the email icon. His hand was shaking. "Okay, here we go." He turned to Hermione, looking back and over his shoulder. "Look away? I don't want you to see my face crumble if it's bad."

Hermione obliged: however much her curiosity was killing her, it was Ron's business, and she had to respect his wishes concerning that. So she looked away, staring up at the ceiling rather than over his shoulders, feeling her chest constrict with each second of silence that trickled by without a reaction from Ron. She could picture it: the final click of the thumb upon the icon, the scroll up as he refreshed the inbox, the click on the small highlighted email, the back-and-forth flicker of the eyes as they took in its contents. It was only the final piece of the puzzle that she couldn't quite assemble yet: the reaction. Would it be a smile or a grimace that spread slowly over his features? Would the corners of his mouth be tilted up or down? Would it be a whoop or a howl issued forth from his lips?

The answer didn't come as quickly as she would've wanted. Ron remained silent, impassive, by her side, and she had to exert an enormous containment effort not to turn over and shake the verdict out of him. Why was he holding her in suspense?

After two minutes that felt like two eons, she couldn't resist it: "So?!" she cried, turning over to face him.

She found him, mouth agape, gaze glued to the screen of his phone. The text was too small for her to make out what it said, but she didn't have to wait for long.

"I'm still in," Ron whispered dazedly. "I'm still in."

It took a moment for the news to seep fully in for both of them, but when they did, they faced each other with wide, sparkling eyes and thrilled grins splitting their faces. "I'm still in! I can stay! I can come back next year! I'm still a Physics PhD candidate!"

The excitement had launched them into an upright sitting position, but now they pulled one another up by the arms and leaped on the bed (another allowance Granger _never_ would've made) giddily, repeating those three words over and over as if repetition would eradicate the last dredges of disbelief.

When the excitement had slightly died down, a breathless Ron looked adoringly at Hermione. "It's all thanks to you."

"Nonsense," Hermione said, a blush adding to the already red tinge of her face, product of the physical exertion.

"No, it is. You helped me get my shit together, you helped me clean up my act—"

"Nonsense. I was just housekeeping. The real stuff, what kept you in," she said, bringing a pointing finger clumsily up to his forehead, "it's all up here."

"I still owe you a big thanks," Ron said. All of a sudden, he swept her into his arms with a big swoop, making her knees buckle under the unexpected shift of weight. "Thank you," he said, a whisper in her ear as he pressed her tight to him.

"No need," Hermione said, and her smile let him know she was genuine. "I've loved every step of it."

"But I do want to thank you, in some way."

"Really, there's no need—"

"Even if I can think of a way...?" he said, his voice now lower, and his thumb drifting down to the waistband of Hermione's pajama trousers, hinting at how he might possibly display his gratitude.

The heat rushed to the spot between Hermione's legs as she realized what he meant. She gave him a knowing smile: " _That_ I would like."

They weren't standing on the bed for much longer, Ron pulling her back down onto their sides as soon as he received affirmation, and they slipped under the covers for a second time, with considerably less clothes on this time around.

* * *

Puddifoot Patisserie, the bakery outbranch of Madam Puddifoot's teashop, was newly-opened on Hogsmeade Lane, and Hermione thought there might be no better occasion than this festive morning to try it out.

After a romp between the sheets, she and Ron had stepped (separately, obeying their common sense and not their bodies' desires) into the shower and gone off about their days. Ron had zipped to the lab to thank Dr. Sinistra and prove to her that the hearing committee had been in the right to keep him on, while Hermione, at a much slower pace, had made her gradual way down to the Linguistics Faculty to serve as a mentor to one of the undergrad projects that had made its way onto the promising research desk.

She had given herself the guilty pleasure of stopping by for a pastry and a cup of hot chocolate, the one thing Madam Puddifoot excelled at (because coffee certainly was not it), and as she lingered in front of the glass display case, she faced a difficult choice as to which of the one-serving morsels she'd pick for her late breakfast.

She settled upon a blackberry-and-white-chocolate tart, and joined the growing queue to pay. She was instructed to wait at one of the chairs with fluffy pink cushions that lined one of the bakery's walls, while her order was ready and her name was called for her to-go order to be picked up.

Her idle wait was interrupted by a voice she had never associated with anything positive: "Good morning."

Without being invited to do so, Lavender took a seat in the chair across from her, eyeing her with contempt that was, at least, less intense than the loathing with which she usually regarded her.

"Hello, Lavender," Hermione said coolly. If it was Lavender who had initiated the encounter, it would also have to be Lavender that would have to give it purpose.

She took a few moments to do so, letting an awkward silence hang between them before Lavender gathered up the courage to break it. "Is Ronald staying on for his PhD?"

Hermione felt almost defensive of the information, but there was no shame in giving the answer— in fact, she should be proud to do so. "Yes," she said curtly. Then curiosity chipped at her stoic demeanor: "How do you know about that, anyway?"

"I stay in the loop," Lavender shrugged. "Friends at the lab, and all."

"Oh."

"I'm glad," Lavender said, and her voice was tamer than the sardonic tone Hermione usually had heard from her, which led her to believe Lavender was being honest. "He deserves it. It's what he loves."

Hermione wondered why Lavender was being so subdued in an encounter with the woman she could've sworn Lavender most hated in the entire universe. "Why are you here?" she blurted out impatiently.

Lavender didn't seem offended or taken aback. She must have expected her motives to be questioned. "I'm here because I don't think we should expend any more energy on hating each other. We don't have to be friends, and I don't want to —in fact, I would be happiest if we didn't have to see each other in our lives ever again—, but at least we can stop wanting to tear each other's hair out."

"I've never hated you."

"Maybe not, but you don't exactly love me either," Lavender sighed. "So?"

"I think you're right," Hermione said. "We should at least part amicably."

"Let's just agree to do that, then," Lavender said, her voice tinged with disgust. "I don't really feel like sloshing through soppy sentimentalities with you."

"Nor do I," Hermione said coldly, secretly glad that she would be spared the heart-to-heart talk. "Let's just agree to it."

"Good, so it's settled."

"So it is."

There was silence between them both, and Hermione thought Lavender would just get up and walk away now that she'd gotten what she wanted. But she stayed put, and she did so for a few more moments before she spoke again in a completely unexpected way.

"I always knew I never stood a chance, you know."

"Sorry?"

"I always knew he'd eventually choose you. Ever since that party during second year, you should've seen how he looked at you after. Even though you never talked, or never properly met until this year, it was always going to be you. Sure, there were other girls, me among them, but it was always going to be you. Deep down, I think I always knew. He was always going to choose you. I'm just relieved he finally did. It feels like a weight off my chest."

Hermione didn't know what to answer to that, but she didn't have to: the attendant behind the counter called out her name and held out a fuchsia paper bag containing her order. Hermione walked up, received her order, and prepared to exit the shop. Just as she was about to push the door open on her way out, she looked back at Lavender, who hadn't moved from the chair. Their eyes met, and the two women gave one another a slow nod of acknowledgement, fully aware that that was the last time they could expect a willful interaction.

Hermione left the shop and continued walking toward her destination, and for once, she was fully sure that Lavender's gaze wasn't following her down the street,


	49. Chapter 49

The University botanical gardens were a hidden jewel among the sprawling grey-and-brown of the cobblestones and bricks that made up the historical campus. The grass seemed to stretch out like some enormous blanket, splayed out across three acres, and if viewed from above, the sea of bright green would be dotted with every bright hue from the flowers and trees planted at different corners, as well as the occasional glass dome of the spaced-out greenhouses.

At the heart of the gardens was a huge lake boasting aqueous vegetation and racing ducks, as well as a magnificent clearing basking in the sheen of the early-afternoon sun. It was the perfect place to set up shop and have a Saturday picnic— which was exactly what Hermione, Neville and company were up to during this rare free block in their normally-swamped schedules.

"Everybody bring a blanket?" Neville asked when everyone had arrived. As the most frequent visitor to the botanical gardens, he had also been the commander-in-chief of this potluck/picnic hybrid they had thrown together to spend the weekend in ensemble, and the giddiness he felt at being the resident expert at what was likely a new experience for most of his friends was evident on his round face.

Around him, his friends nodded, some waving out the blankets they had brought, others unrolling them already. Neville gestured for all of them to lay the blankets down all close together to form a large, mismatched quilt of fabric where everyone was soon sitting messily, already pulling out the contents of what baskets and bags they had brought.

Ginny and Harry had brought the drinks: two large, to-go bottles of pumpkin juice from the Three Broomsticks, a spritzy drink of sparkling water with a faint aftertaste of apples, a gallon of water, and the cups to serve the drinks in. Their large, red-and-white cooler sat next to them atop a blanket of the same colors. Dean and Seamus had assembled all sorts of sandwiches, Seamus having proclaimed himself an expert in the science of sandwich-making, and had a selection of everything from plain ham and cheese to pulled pork and even peanut butter banana. Ron and Hermione had brought the fresher items, mainly a platter of veggies and a spinach, strawberry, and walnut salad, as well as the plates and cutlery, Hermione having been deemed the most responsible one for the task. Luna, in a characteristically out-of-the-box fashion, had brought a strong-smelling chickpea dip and its accompanying blue-corn chips. Neville had delighted in baking, his preferred role in any food situation, and had brought with him raspberry danishes, chocolate cookies, and a pound cake dripping with a lemon glaze.

As he let himself fall into a crossed-leg sitting position next to Hermione, Ron said, "Well, if there's one thing you can say about this picnic, it's that none of us are leaving hungry."

His observation was met with hearty assent, and it wasn't long before the gathering was clattering with the sound of forks against plates, requests to 'pass the tuna sandwiches, won't you, Dean', and the bubbling stream of inconsequential chatter that such careless, friendly gatherings were always infused with.

It was a scene straight out of a postcard, Hermione thought as she cut herself a slice of the pound cake, surveying her friends around her. _If only the PR team could be here to photograph this, I'm sure they'd find the next image to slap on their pamphlet covers_ , she smirked to herself, in no way well-wishing Rita Skeeter beyond what little space her thoughts had allowed for slight mockery.

And it was true: all around her, her friends paid a quaint, idyllic picture of university life. Harry had his head in Ginny's lap, letting her run her fingers through his messy black hair and discussing hypothetical team arrangements for their next scrimmage. Dean, ever the good sport, was sitting back-to-back with Luna, allowing her to practice her psychoanalysis on him and trying not to look too alarmed when she diagnosed him with something called 'faberlepsy', which Hermione could swear she had just made up. Seamus and Ron were engrossed in a discussion of how the cricket season was looking this year and whether India had any shot against England in the imminent World Cup, though, by the sound of it, Seamus was adamant that Ireland had been robbed. Beside them, Neville was trying to join the conversation but was all-too-fixated on picking chocolate chunks of his cookie with surgical precision, apparently choosing to go for the richer morsels before he dove into the floury richness of the actual dough.

And as for Hermione? Leaning back, legs straight forward, with her arms supporting her weight as she allowed the faint breeze, the first omen of spring, to comb over her features, she felt truly happy. It was hard not to, in a place like this, in such company, and she sustained the illusion and the emotion —eyes gently closed— for as long as she possibly could.

She was interrupted when she heard punctuated clapping and Luna's voice chime through her mellow stupor: "I have a game we should play."

She had said it without any notable enthusiasm, but as always, her voice was enough to garner attention. Consensus spread among the group: _sure, let's play a game, why not_?

"Okay, everyone has to pay attention," Luna instructed them, sitting down normally with a ramrod-straight back and looking at her friends behind sunglasses of mismatched color lenses with her wide, owlish eyes. "The game works like this: I'll choose a person, give them a word, and they have to come up with a story or anecdote connected to that word. I'll start— ready?"

"Wait!" Hermione piped up, already digging through her bag for her trusty recorder. Ever the linguist, even on her days off, she couldn't help but realize the linguistic potential in Luna's game. "Do you all mind if I record this? I think I could build from this— I don't know, on the importance of language in making connections we aren't really aware of, something like that..." she trailed off.

Luna injected her growing uncertainty with fresh solidity: "Ooh, sure! It would be interested if we could feature this in the project somehow."

"So no personal stories, then," Harry said, eyeing the recorder warily.

"Up to you," Luna shrugged.

"If you choose to go personal, just say it after you're done and I'll leave it off," Hermione stepped in reassuringly. "That is, of course, assuming I end up using them."

"So can we play? I thought this was a game, not a social experiment," Ron teased, and Hermione had half a mind to jokingly tell him to sod off, a sentiment she poured into a crooked smile she shot at him.

"Okay, I'll start," said Luna, that eager look again making her eyes pop as her gaze swept the group to pick out her prey. "Let's start with Ronald. Your word is, um..." Luna looked around the picnic setup trying to get some inspiration for what she was going to give him, which seemed to come when she noticed a small, moving speck by the corner of Hermione's basket. "Spider!"

"Where?!" Ron reacted instinctively, flinching back from where Luna's eyes had last fallen, before it dawned on him that that was his word (and that, if there was a spider, he was better off not knowing). "Well, I think you can all tell where this is going. I _hate_ spiders," he declared, shuddering slightly, "so I won't have to pick my brains very hard for a story. Um, let's see..."

"Tell the one with the teddy bear," Ginny prompted him, still stroking Harry's hair.

"Is this your story or mine?" Ron glared at her. "But yeah, that's probably a good one. It won't give me nightmares, I s'pose. Alright, so, when I was around three, I woke up super early because something on my face tickled. I was still kinda groggy when I put my finger up to it to see what it was and it turned out to be a spider. Oh my god, the _scream_ I let out must've woken up the whole house. Anyway, Fred and George must've thought it was pretty funny, because about a week later, they stole my favorite teddy bear and glued a bunch of black felt legs and googly eyes to it to, I dunno, make it look like a spider. Pretty silly, I know," he started defending himself, looking out at the amused faces around him, "but keep in mind I was three and scared shitless of spiders. So the teddy bear ended up in my bed again one night, and so I went into my room, turned on the light, and just _saw_ it there on my bed— I might've screamed again. Fred and George thought it was pretty funny—"

"It was," Ginny interrupted, a reminiscing smile on her lips.

"Not to me," Ron said, glaring at her again. "I've hated spiders ever since."

"What a fine piece of Ronald Weasley lore," Harry declared with joking pompousness, and that was enough to set the group laughing. Even Ron couldn't keep a begrudging smile from breaking through his stony frown.

"Just in case you were planning on getting a pet tarantula, Hermione," Seamus said.

"I would die of shock and you would be widowed before you were ever married," Ron said, drawing an arm across her shoulders.

Hermione didn't even have time to consider the possible implications of that marriage reference, because Luna took over again: "So now, Ronald, you choose another person and give them a word."

"I'm going to choose my dear little sister," Ron said with boyish malice, "since she seemed to get such a kick out of _my_ childhood trauma."

" _Trauma_ ," snorted Ginny. "So dramatic."

"We'll see about that," Ron said, the glint in his eyes only gaining intensity. "Ginny, your word is _poem_."

All of the mirth in Ginny's face evaporated. "You can't be serious," she said with grim recognition, and Ron nodded triumphantly. "You know I could just tell _another_ story with the same word, right?"

"Which would compel _me_ to tell the other one," he shot back.

Ginny, realizing she couldn't win (if she didn't tell it, Ron would, and if Ron did, he would make it sound about a hundred times worse than it really was), sighed and gave in. "Okay, so when I was, like, _ten_ , I used to have a _huuuuge_ crush on Harry—"

"Huge is an understatement," Ron said giddily, taking evident pleasure at his sister's turn in the hot seat.

"Is this your story or mine?" Ginny said in a high-pitched mockery of his previous statement, and that was enough to make him quiet. Satisfied, she continued: "He was Ron's mate from school, and when he brought him round to the house for the first time, I was smitten. Keep in mind I'd seen him on the news and I was a little starstruck. Anyway, that year at our school's Valentine carnival, I sent him a valentine that I thought was 'anonymous' but turned out to be super evident, and it had the worst piece of writing I have _ever_ come up with. It was a poem about him and I went a little heavy-handed with the metaphors—"

Harry and Ron were unable to contain themselves, and cried out in a perfect, ecstatic chorus: "His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad—!"

"SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!" Ginny roared, swatting at Harry and piercing Ron through with a deathly stare. Her brother and boyfriend were reduced to laughter and continued the humiliation no further. Flushed red, Ginny cleared her throat and continued: "So, yeah. That was my one vain stab at poetry."

"Just give her the Nobel Prize in Literature already," Ron said, his eyes still crinkled with laughter.

"Shall we bring up the song you tried to write to Lavender in eighth year?" Ginny said sharply, and that was enough to quiet Ron down again. "Okay, so, I'm going to pick on... Neville. Neville, your word is _fork_."

Neville ruminated his word for a few seconds. "Mine is pretty stupid. But it was the first thing that came into mind. I had a bunch of older cousins and, since my grandma raised me, they were always coming over. I was the youngest cousin, and I was pretty gullible, so I was happy to just play with them when what was really going on was I was the butt of their games. It was in good fun, sure, I'm not resentful or anything, but one time my cousin Andrew must have read that thing about sticking a fork in a light socket and my cousins all tried to convince me to do it just to see what would happen. They said it'd give me powers, or something, I don't even remember how they got me to do it. Anyway, my grandmother stopped us just as I was about to put it in. Thank God she did," he said, and looked at his stunned friends around him.

It was Seamus that said what they were all thinking: "That was pretty dark, Neville."

"It was all in good fun," Neville repeated dismissively, and they all decided it was better to let that be the end of that. "Okay, so now I pick someone? Seamus, how about you? And the word is _glass_."

Seamus smiled as if he had just savored a delightful treat. "Oh, do I have a story for you all. When I was little, I was really into chemistry— at least that's what my mam would tell you, but the reality was I just liked mixing shit. Anyway, one time when my mum was taking a nap, I went around the house and got a few bottles I wanted to test out mixing. Keep in mind, again, I had no real knowledge of chemistry. So that's how eight-year-old Seamus ended up at the kitchen counter with a huge glass, the bleach from the laundry, my mum's shampoo, and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide she used to lighten her hair."

"Wait, but wouldn't bleach and the peroxide—?" Ron started, beginning to get a hint of the reaction.

Seamus nodded proudly. "Yep. And that's exactly what it did. I might have overdone it a bit, because when it exploded, the glass completely shattered and it sent all the shards around the kitchen. Woke my mum up from her nap just peachy, though," he laughed, taking pleasure in a childhood misdeed.

"But Seamus, that reaction could've been dangerous!" Hermione said, awed at Seamus's evident reveling in something she, as a child, would've never even considered.

"Well, I think the shampoo nullified it a bit, which I'm thankful for," Seamus said. "How about you, Hermione? You tell us a story. How's the word _battery_?"

Hermione abandoned her concerned pretenses and mulled over her word for a few moments. When she was ready to talk, she did so with fresh eagerness: "One Christmas, when I was little, I got a huge pink Barbie tape recorder —not the handheld type, the type that plays CDs and is more of a speaker— that had two microphones at its sides. I _loved_ it: I took that thing everywhere with me. It was the microphones that did it. I used to go around putting the microphone up to my stuffed animals in fake interviews, or try to get one of my parents to grab the other microphone, or even just walking around the house talking to myself about nothing in particular, grabbing the recorder's handle and tangled in the microphone's cable. I used that thing so much that I think I went through three packs of AA batteries in two weeks. That's what made my parents instate a 'recorder ban'— only 15 minutes a day, and it had to stay in their room the rest of the time. I think that was the first heartbreak I ever knew."

"So that's the origin story for that little handheld recorder you carry, isn't it," Ron said, tightening his squeeze around his shoulders. "That's why you go all vintage instead of just using your phone."

"It's a loyalty thing," Hermione smiled, bringing her hand up to rest on his, perched on her shoulder. "And the best part is I get to use this one as much as I want because it's University property, so they subsidize the batteries."

"You get excited over weird things, Hermione," Ron teased.

Everyone's attention turned to the little tape recorder in the center of the picnic blankets, its red light blinking steadily as it captured the sounds around it. "Pretty meta, huh?" Seamus commented.

"So, my turn to pick," Hermione said, looking around her. "Uh... Dean. And your word is _key._ "

"I'm sure we're all bored of childhood stories," Dean started almost immediately, "but when I was little there was nothing my mother wanted more than for me to learn how to play the piano. My stepfather said I should, said it would make me better at maths, or something, but I could never get the hang of it. Everything I tried to play was terribly off-key."

"That's a reach on your word," Ron pointed out.

"You could just as well say a piano has a keyboard, and it would work," Dean shrugged, and Ron had to give him that. "Anyway, all I really wanted to do was draw. I would use the sheet music paper to draw, just make little doodles off of the grid lines instead of writing my practice scales on them. If there were notes written on them, I'd turn the little ovals into doodles, too. My stepfather opened the sheetbook once and saw everything, so he took it away and said I couldn't draw in it anymore. Well, that was all fine and mighty, but I still hated that damn piano, so since I couldn't draw on the sheets anymore, one time during what was supposed to be practice I took a pencil to the keys. My stepfather was _livid_ : he sat down to play himself and he saw all those little pencil doodles on the white keys. It came off, thankfully, or I would've been lynched (regular eraser works, by the way, in case it ever comes in handy), but that was when my stepdad caved and let my mom ship me off to art classes instead." He finished his story with a contented little smile, expressing the evident pleasure at having gotten his own way. "Let's go with Harry. Harry, your word is _orange_."

"Mine is pretty simple," Harry said. "The other day, I went into the Three Broomsticks, and I asked Rosmerta for a glass of pumpkin juice. She said they didn't have any, and whether orange juice would be okay, so I said yes. To make up for it, she didn't just bring a glass, she brought a whole pitcher. Juiciest breakfast I'd ever had, but pretty damn good."

He finished and settled back into Ginny's lap with a smug little grin, as everyone else hung on his words waiting for a continuation. "The end."

His friends exploded. "But that doesn't count!" Neville protested. "That's not a story or anecdote!"

"Why not? It's a thing that happened to me, and a thing that I remember, and a thing I can tell a story about," Harry said with the same challenging smugness.

"Yeah, but it still doesn't count," Neville huffed.

"Were you all expecting a tragic childhood backstory?" Harry said, crossing his arms. "Is that what counts around here? Well, I think pretty much everyone in Britain knows enough about my childhood already, and I'm not giving any of you any tasty little souvenirs you can sell to Rita Skeeter."

His tone was jokey, which offset the evident seriousness of his words. Nobody knew how to respond except Ginny: "Damn it. There goes my plan to collect stories about your childhood so I can write a tell-all book about being your girlfriend."

That dissolved any remaining tension, and thus Harry turned to the final friend to have a turn. "Luna? Your word is _pebble_."

Luna smiled in her dreamy, mysterious way and let the silence linger before beginning her story. "The day after my mum died, I spent all of it in the little brook that runs near my house. It was where I used to go with her. My dad was shuttered up in the house, so it was just me down there. My mum and I used to go down to the river and make pebbles do skips. Well, _she_ did— when I went with her, not one time did I manage to get a pebble to do anything but sink. But not that day. That day, when I went alone, I mostly went because I didn't know how else to process it. It felt hard to believe that she wouldn't be down there with me again, that it would just be me and my dad now. So to ward off the thoughts, I tried my hand at pebble skipping again. And this time, first try, it skipped three times before sinking. That was the first time it ever had, and I took that as a sign that my mum was still around. So that made everything better."

She ended her story in characteristic Luna fashion, ending on a discordant note that suggested continuation, folding her hands in her lap and grinning out at everyone, even when the content of her words warranted anything but. Between pity and sympathy, her friends decided on the latter: Luna had shared this story not to make them feel bad but because the prospect of the pebbles genuinely enthralled her, and that was how they had to take it.

The game over, everyone returned to regular picnic activities, but the sun was lower in the sky and soon it would be time to get on with their day. It was an unspoken agreement when everyone started picking up, placing empty containers back into baskets and rolling up the blankets to take home with them. As they said goodbye to one another, Ginny pulled Hermione slightly aside, her blanket tucked under her arm while Hermione's basket swung at her side.

"So," Ginny said, being careful to stand out of earshot. "You know about McLaggen."

She braced herself for an emotional reaction, but none came. Hermione replied calmly: "I do."

"Fantastic," Ginny said, breathing out a sigh of relief. "I really mean it. I thought it was ridiculous, you not knowing. And how do you feel?"

"To be honest? Much of the same," Hermione said earnestly. "I don't remember anything, so it feels almost like it happened to another person. And I'm not exactly surprised. More than anything, I was just touched that Ron came to the rescue. It's hard to feel anything toward an experience you have no recollection of."

"Are you planning to do anything about it?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "I went to the student records office before walking here to ask about the report Ron filed after it happened. They told me it had never been carried through, which didn't surprise me, but I asked them to look into it again. I have an appointment on Monday to talk to them. And if they still do nothing, well, it might be time to involve the law rather than just the school authorities."

She delivered her action process so nonchalantly that it was hard for Ginny to register some of the harsher measures contained in it. "But you're not confronting him?"

"Why give him the satisfaction?" Hermione shrugged. "You know how he is. He's a performer, he'd find some way to play it cool or turn it back against me, especially if there are other people around, which he _always_ makes sure there are. No, I'd rather see him once he gets hauled into an inquiry, with all the facts on the table and no background dancers to prop up his act."

Ginny still seemed unconvinced. "Are you sure?"

Hermione sent a hand out, the one that wasn't holding her basket, and set it on her friend's shoulder. "I know it's not what you would've done, Ginny, because you're fiery and feisty and you'd've given him a piece of your mind years ago if it had been you. But I don't have that kind of character, and I don't want to give him opportunities to victimize me any further. I want closure— I'm not sure I want to play the role of victim any more than I actually have to."

"I understand that," Ginny said, some of the tension in her shoulders letting up. "Anyway, if you do need help in making that report come through, count on me. Even if it doesn't work, we can always do some sort of exposé..."

"I hardly think it will be necessary," Hermione laughed. "At least, I hope not. But don't worry, Ginny. I know I can count on you. And that means more to me than I could ever tell you."

The two women stood facing each other, holding each other's gaze with twin smiles, as the unspoken words of trust and solidarity moved between them. Ginny broke through the moment: "And hey, besides, Ron's back on track for his PhD now, right? That oughta do it to McLaggen, the smug bastard."

Hermione looked over at Ron, who was standing off to a side chatting with Harry. When he felt Hermione's eyes on him, he turned slightly to see her, and gave her a small wave that seemed to say _I'll wait for you_. Hermione smiled. "Yes, I think it will."


	50. Chapter 50

"Ginny, darling!" came an unexpected call from somewhere nearby.

Ginny, who had been striding alongside Hermione through the dozens of makeshift alleys produced by the rickety market stands in the plaza at the heart of the campus, just a street over from Hogsmeade Lane, stopped in her tracks and immediately perked up.

"Was that for me?" she asked, as if Hermione would magically have the answer. "Because it sounded an awful lot like—"

"Ginevra, are you deaf?" the voice met them again, this time much closer, in a tone of friendly reproach. Hermione turned to look at the source and there she was: Ron's mother, Mrs. Weasley, in the flesh. Despite having only seen her once before, during the Weasleys' New Year fest, the woman was unmistakable.

When she spotted Hermione, Mrs. Weasley broke out into an elated grin. "Hermione, darling, and how are you?" She went in for a hug, encircling Hermione with robust arms, a hug she returned a little stiffly but all in earnest. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Three months or so, yes," Hermione smiled. "Since New Year's."

"Oh, that's right, with those lovely emerald trousers of yours..." Mrs. Weasley's attention now turned to her daughter. "Ginny, dear, you won't hug your mother?"

"If she gives me the chance instead of going for Hermione first," Ginny said with mock offense, but she hugged her mother far more naturally than Hermione had. "What are you doing on campus, anyway?"

The answer popped out from around the corner of a bratwurst stand in the lean shape of Bill Weasley. Clad in a suave leather jacket, his feathery hair reaching mid-neck, he joined his mother, Ginny, and Hermione. "Mum, you can't just disappear on me," he said with loving reproach, and Mrs. Weasley smiled contentedly at the attention. Bill turned to Hermione: "Hermione! What a pleasure," he shot her a smile, and as he leaned in for a handshake, Hermione caught the glint of a short earring dangling from his earlobe. "Gin," he acknowledged his smallest sister, pulling her into a rough hug that must've been the norm for Ginny when she was growing up.

"Same question goes for you, Bill. What are you and mum doing here?" Ginny said once she'd broken off from her brother.

"I brought mum because I've got something interesting going on. Well, me and the lads from the Arch Fac, and I wanted her to be the first to see."

"Wow, some project this must be," Ginny said, cocking an eyebrow, "for mum to come all the way here. And for you to show your face around the University."

"And I needed a break from Ottery St. Catchpole," Mrs. Weasley chimed in as if to defend her visit further. "It's been so long since I set foot on campus, too. Not since Ginevra's commencement back when she got her Bachelor's, I believe!"

"So you're spending the day, then?" Hermione said with polite interest.

"Yes," Mrs. Weasley answered radiantly. "Bill's already shown me his project, so we've got the rest of the day ahead of us. He's taken me on a stroll down the marketplace, but this little run-in was unintended."

"But quite welcome," Bill added, giving Hermione another one of those assuaging smiles that had, so far, always made Bill's company comfortable for her.

"Yes, most welcome indeed," Mrs. Weasley went on. "I'm glad I've caught you here, actually, because Bill and I have made a reservation for six at —Godric's, isn't it, Bill dear, the fancy place?— at Godric's tonight, and we were hoping to grab dinner with you and Harry and Ronald to end my visit. I love hearing from all of you— you can imagine how bored I usually am. What do you say?"

"Free night," Ginny grinned, but Hermione still looked reticent.

"That's very kind, Mrs. Weasley, thank you, but I'd feel like I'm intruding. I wouldn't want to intrude on a night with your family."

"Oh, nonsense," Mrs. Weasley said, barreling through to squeeze Hermione's arm affectionately. "I've lived over twenty years with them, trust me, it's been time enough."

"Plus Harry's coming," Bill chimed in.

"But Harry's like family, I—"

"Well, so are you," Mrs. Weasley smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling with the pull of her kindness, and again came that reassuring squeeze on Hermione's arm, this time with a sense of finality, a sort of 'I won't hear another word about this'. "You're Ron's girlfriend, I wouldn't dream of not having you there."

"And if you don't wanna be Ron's girlfriend, be my date instead," Ginny said, grabbing Hermione's other arm. "Harry can go with Ron."

"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing," Bill shrugged. "We used to think they'd be the ones to end up together, for a while."

"Oh, Bill," his mother chastised him, but her tone suggested there was truth in what Bill said. She turned back toward Ginny and Hermione: "So? Should we see you there at seven thirty?"

Hermione's answer, though still abashed, came without hesitation: "I suppose I'd better tell Ron to get his stuff in order for that time."

Mrs. Weasley grinned with such profuse joy that any onlooker could've thought the very Queen had agreed to just dine with her. "Splendid."

* * *

"So dinner with my mum warrants that dress, but I don't?" was the first thing Ron said when he opened the door to find Hermione there.

"It's an occasion," Hermione —who looked gorgeous in a knee-length heart-cut red dress— said as she stepped through, pausing to give him a kiss on the cheek, into his flat.

"What, meeting my mother? You met her at New Year's," Ron said as he shut the door behind her.

"Yes, but we weren't dating then. Come here, your buttons are off," Hermione called him over toward the couch, keeping her gaze fixated on his chest as she redid the buttons on his white shirt. "Meeting the parents _before_ you're together doesn't really count as meeting the parents."

"Why not?" Ron protested, nevertheless hoping she wouldn't breeze through the button job just to feel the graze of her fingertips on his bare chest as they fixed his attire.

"Because it's a different context."

"Let me wrap my head around this: it's 'a different context' that finally gets you to pull that dress out of the closet, and not my begging, for weeks now, to have you put it on for me only so I can take it off of you—"

"It's a different context," Hermione repeated with finality. She finished the last button, leaving one undone at the top of the shirt right on the collar, and placed both her palms flat on his chest, moving them down to smooth the shirt. "There. All set."

"Do them again," Ron whined, holding her wrists to keep her hands close to his chest, "do them again, I think you missed one..."

"You think I'd miss a button?" Hermione smirked, delicately brushing his chin with her fingertips and leaning in for a kiss. "Now come on, we're going to be late."

"She's used to me being late," Ron said, grabbing the navy blue suit jacket draped over the back of the couch and beginning to hastily slide it on. "She's my mother."

"Yes, but she's not mine," Hermione said, stepping behind him to help him with the struggle to finish dressing. She slid the jacket neatly onto his shoulders and, again, brushed each shoulder with her hand to smoothen out any incipient creases. "For me, like I said, it's an occasion."

"You don't have anything to worry about," Ron said, turning around and placing his hand on the small of her back in one swift movement. Now it was his turn to lean in and meet her lips with his, pulling away to brush a strand of hair from her face and give her an adoring smile. "She's going to love you."

 _Like I do_ , was the implicit ending there, but Ron didn't have to say it: Hermione's brief, grateful kiss, which landed neatly on the corner of his mouth, made it clear that she'd understood it.

He offered her his arm and twiddled his apartment keys around his index finger. "Shall we go, then?"

Hermione strung her arm into his and squeezed them tighter together. "Let's go."

After Ron closed the flat and they went down the elevator, they wove through the all-too-familiar streets arm in arm, Hermione shrouded in a cream-colored shawl over her dress and Ron pairing nicely with her in his stark blue suit. They walked briskly but without rush, never losing stride but greeting a few people along the way, with the natural quality comfortable couples are infused with. At last they made it to Godric's, where the maître did not keep them waiting and ushered them in as soon as Mrs. Weasley spotted them and waved (perhaps a little too eagerly) from a table near the back of the restaurant.

"I'm glad you could both make it," Bill said with a smile as Hermione tried to keep Mrs. Weasley from standing up to greet her, bending over instead.

"Wouldn't miss it," Hermione said as she took a seat next to Mrs. Weasley, where the redheaded woman had beckoned, and was now smiling as if Hermione had just paid her a grand compliment.

"Harry's late?" was all Ron said as way of greeting, clapping Bill's back fraternally and sitting at the head of the table next to Hermione. A servicial waiter materialized behind Ron and produced a coat rack seemingly from thin air, accepting Ron's discarded jacket and Hermione's purse to hang them out of their laps but in the space between them. He disappeared and returned almost immediately with a pitcher of ice-cold water to fill Ron and Hermione's empty glasses with.

"Service is quick," Mrs. Weasley said with admiration, her eyes trailing after the waiter once he'd turned back toward the kitchen.

"Only the best of the best, mum," Bill said, kissing her cheek before reassuming his seat after greeting Ron. "We're all big fans of this place here. Has it gotten any easier to get a reservation since I went here?"

"Only on weekdays, and only for brunch," Ron said, shooting Hermione a knowing look: they'd taken advantage of that brunchtime loophole for many an improvised date.

"Well, then, I'm glad William called ahead," Mrs. Weasley said. "Oh, I would have been happy dining anywhere, it's really the company that's important (and my not having to cook, of course, that's always a blessing), but I can't say I'm unhappy that it turned out to be here."

The string of small talk was interrupted by Harry and Ginny's arrival, which sent the table into a light flurry of fleeting excitement. Ginny looked stunning in a sequined, long-sleeved emerald dress, which paired nicely with Harry's pocket square, which stood out in a flash of green from his grey-black suit.

"I didn't know this was a pocket square evening," was the first thing Ron said as he rose to greet his best friend.

"Elegance is a lifestyle, not an event," Harry said with joking pomposity as he stepped over to greet Mrs. Weasley like he would a mother.

Ginny mimicked her brother in her admiration of her friend's attire upon greeting her: "Wow, red dress kinda night?"

"Seemed like a good time."

"Ron must have drooled when he saw you," Ginny said, squeezing Hermione's wrist before taking a seat across from her.

Harry settled in the remaining chair, across from Mrs. Weasley and between Bill —at the table's head— and Ginny, and once the same diligent waiter saw the occupancy had been filled, he did not dally in rushing forward with six leather-bound menus.

"I'll need my glasses," Mrs. Weasley said, squinting down at the menu as she opened it. "This calligraphy is like an obstacle course."

"I'll be glad to decode any tricky letters, Mrs. Weasley— I'm the linguist, after all," Hermione offered, the small quip at the end making Bill snort.

"None of that, dear, call me Molly," said Mrs. Weasley as if anything else was simply inconceivable.

They each took a few moments to select their courses from the menu —opting for Godric's three-course, variable-choice dinner—, and recited them to the waiter when he returned, zooming around the table and back to the kitchen with their orders as quickly as he'd appeared.

"Truly spectacular," Molly said, again awed at the quality of the service.

"You get your money's worth," Bill said.

"Oh, I can certainly tell. The leather-bound menus more than let you in on it," Molly remarked, and her two children smiled at how something that was the bread and butter of University dining (granted, on special occasions) was proving a whole thrilling experience for their mother.

Dinner went by calmly and pleasantly, the easygoing conversation punctuated only by the occasional interruption of a plate of food being set down in front of them. They spoke of Hermione's project, congratulated Ron on resuming his PhD track, asked Harry how classes were going for his undergrads, and discussed the football season with Ginny (since the men's season had ended, the women's team had gone on to defeat Beauxbatons to face off against Ilvermorny in the finals, which had been a surprise upset).

"Fleur's kind of relieved, to be honest," Bill said when he heard the news. "Sure, she pouted for a few hours about the loss, but now she doesn't have an impossible choice on who to root for in the finals."

"We've got this in the bag," Ginny said with confidence. "We beat Ilvermorny in play-offs. The only reason they made it to finals was that Durmstrang's striker got a red card the match before and had to sit the semi out."

"What about you, Bill?" Hermione asked, realizing he was the only one who had yet to be put in the conversational spotlight.

Ginny picked up on it: "Yeah, what's this mysterious project you brought mum to campus for?"

Bill's easy smile turned enigmatic. "You'll see."

"Is it a secret?"

"No, not exactly, but I'm not telling you just because you'll know what it is soon enough," Bill said. "Now, can someone tell the waiter to bring over the dessert menus?"

It was clear that that was no longer a topic open for discussion at the table, so they settled back into the easy flow of conversation after selecting the final course from a smaller, but just as elegant, dessert menu.

"While we wait, I'm going to go to the ladies' room," Molly said, standing up with her purse in her hands.

"I'll go with you," Hermione offered, thinking she could do with a visit herself, especially if it would put her in Ron's mother's good graces.

"That's very nice of you, darling," Molly gave her a warm smile and took her lightly by the arm, allowing Hermione to lead her toward the restrooms.

After each separate stop at a cubicle, Hermione stood washing her hands at the elegant black marble-finish sink when Molly emerged from a cubicle behind her, quick to delight in the zesty scent of the grapefruit soap stocked by the restaurant.

Hermione waited patiently for her to finish so they could walk back to their table together, but as Molly finished drying her hands and deposited the small fabric towel into the 'dirty' basket under the sinks, she held Hermione back. "Just a moment, dear. I was hoping to catch you alone at some point this evening."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Hermione smiled dutifully, nonetheless feeling a sting of nervousness at what this could possibly entail.

Molly seemed to notice her slight change in Hermione's expression: "But what's with the face, dear? It's nothing bad, I promise. Not in the slightest. No, I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done for Ronald."

"It's really been nothing—"

"It hasn't, dear, I hope you know that. You've been a heavensend for him. I know you helped him with his PhD issue—"

"It was really all him," Hermione said, a little flustered. "He did all of it, I just helped him with some of the finer details."

"Of course he did all of it, but he couldn't have without you putting him back on the right track," Molly said, placing a warm hand on Hermione's arm. "That's worth something. And it's no small thing that he looks infinitely happier now than he did just months ago."

"I just hope I can be for him what he is for me," Hermione said abashedly, a slight smile stitched across her lips nonetheless.

"You are, dear, trust me," Molly said, meeting her gaze earnestly. "And I can't tell you, truly, how much I hope that you'll be sticking around in his life, in all of ours, for a long time."

Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes, and sent a hand out forth to place on Molly's arm as well. The older woman looked up at her, her eyes crinkling with her smile again, and squeezed her arm once to eradicate any doubts on the honesty of what she had just said. "Now, shall we get back to the table? The desserts must be here."

Hermione nodded and, still holding Molly's arm, led her back to the table with the full awareness that something had changed, evolved, between them, and for the better.

Dessert was a high note on which to conclude the dinner: though the University was filled with good patisseries, the high cuisine and confectionary at Godric's was a rare treat to delight all the senses, no matter what the pick of dessert had been. After that, dinner was over quickly: the waiter, swift as ever, brought the check almost as soon as their dessert plates were lifted, setting it down before Bill.

"How much do we owe you?" Harry asked, beginning to dig in his trouser pockets for his wallet. Ron mimicked him, and Ginny and Hermione's hands flew to their purses as well.

Bill, however, was immutable: "Nothing," he said, motioning for the waiter to bring over the credit card terminal. The waiter rushed forth and Bill inserted the card into the reader.

"What do you mean nothing?" Hermione said. "It can't be a small bill, and we've had such a lovely time... You making the reservation was more than enough."

"You owe me nothing," Bill said, signing the credit card receipt with one swift flourish and sending the waiter along, having finalized every step of the dinner now.

"We brought cash," Ron said, his wallet in hand. "If it was the 'splitting-the-bill' hassle you wanted to save, we get that, just tell us how much we should dish out—"

"I'm not letting any of you pay, and that's that," Bill said, his voice losing none of its friendliness but gaining an edge that made everyone's wallets disappear back into their respective pockets and purses. "I invited you, I pay. It's common courtesy."

"Mr. Splendid over here," Ron said with teasing affection.

"I can afford it," Bill said nonchalantly.

A flare went off in Ginny's head. "Is this about the project—?"

"Didn't I say not another word about that?" Bill said cheekily, but his lilting smile let Ginny know she had hit the nail right on the head. Nonetheless, none of them pressed him further.

They said their goodbyes outside the restaurant before going their separate ways: Bill and Molly, presumably to take the late coach to the train station from where they would return to their houses, and Harry and Ginny and Ron and Hermione retreating to one of their significant others' flats. 

After they had hugged and kissed Molly goodbye, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione walked a few meters back together, before they would have to split and go their separate ways toward Ron and Ginny's respective apartment buildings, which were in a different direction from the fork at the end of Hogsmeade Lane. Once reached, they parted ways with a promise to meet up soon, and then it was just Ron and Hermione walking the last couple blocks or so toward Ron's flat.

"So, did it turn out to be an occasion?" was the first thing Ron said when they found themselves alone again.

The black night wavered with the amber glow from the lights in what few restaurants were still open, the light melody of a string quartet in an open-air café weaving around them like a gust of spring breeze.

"You could certainly say that," Hermione smiled as they left the last of the commercial locales behind and Ron's apartment building came into view.

"What did my mother say?" Ron inquired. Hermione looked at him questioningly. "Oh, when you two went to the loo together. You must've said _something_ to one another, or it must've been incredibly awkward otherwise. What did she say?"

"Do you really want to know?" she said as they stepped into the lobby of the building.

Ron stopped to wave at the porter, then stepped forward to press the elevator button. "Why would I have asked?"

"Alright, then," Hermione said. The elevator dinged and the doors opened with a rumble. Ron and Hermione stepped inside, and she waited until the doors were closed and she felt the jolt of the lift upwards before she continued speaking. "She thanked me for being a good girlfriend to you. For helping you out with the PhD thing, but mostly because she thinks you look much happier since we got together."

"She's right," Ron said, looping an arm around Hermione's waist and drawing her closer. "I am much, much happier."

The elevator doors opened again and delivered them to Ron's floor. He used the arm that wasn't embracing Hermione to dig in his pocket for his keys, pulling them out with a jingle and turning the right one to get past the lock on his door. The door to the flat opened and they walked inside in step, as if they were two cogs in the same machine. 

They broke their hold once inside to go their separate ways, Hermione to the bedroom to remove her makeup and brush her teeth in the adjoining bathroom, Ron to the kitchen for a glass of water with a brief pit stop to place the keys in the bowl on the little doorside table. 

When Ron walked into the bedroom, he found a barefoot, bare-faced Hermione standing by the bed, still in her red dress and with a telling smile on her lips.

"I need some help taking this off," she said in a low voice, and Ron thought his knees might just buckle at that very moment.

"You don't have to ask me twice," he said, walking up to her and turning her gently around so he could get at the zipper. He slid it slowly down, drawing out the moment for as long as he could, a tense anticipation lingering between his hands and Hermione's skin.

"Done," he declared in a breath once the zipper was all the way down. However, Hermione didn't turn around just yet. Ron knew what that meant: he let his hands migrate from Hermione's lower back to the middle of her spine, then move toward the front of her torso, where the dress still lightly hung, and settle over her breasts. He felt Hermione draw in a gasp as his hands found their place and the dress, hanging only by inertia, dropped to the floor and gathered in a puddle of fabric at her feet.

Ron leaned forward, pressing against Hermione's behind and nipping lightly at her earlobe with his teeth. "You're a linguist, Dr. Granger," he whispered into her ear. "So tell me, how good are you at reading body language?"

"Shut up," Hermione giggled under her breath as she turned around and faced him. She grabbed hold of his tie, still hanging from his collar though with a much looser knot, and used it to pull him closer. "It's not exactly like your body language is very hard to read, honestly."

"Am I making myself obvious?" Ron said huskily, his hands moving lower to shape around the curve of Hermione's rear.

"You very much are," Hermione said, her hand dipping into the waistband of his trousers without even having discarded the belt yet. Ron whimpered slightly.

"And is it working? Do you like it?"

"I love it," Hermione said before pulling them both down to bed. As she undid his belt buckle, her lips tangled in his, she couldn't help but smile to herself: all that effort Ron had put into making it clear how much he was dying to take that dress off of her, he'd never once stopped to consider that maybe all she wanted was to do the same with that blue suit. And boy was she enjoying it now.


	51. Chapter 51

Hermione's phone's incessant, high-pitched ringing was driving Ron crazy. It had been going on for a good five minutes now, and if he had to hear that faux-melodic chiming one more time he was sure he would go insane.

But sure as day, there it went again: singing cheerfully on the living room coffee table of Hermione's flat, completely unaware of how strongly it was making Ron —just a few feet away, settled comfortably on the bed in the next room— want to chuck it out the window. Ron let it ring itself exhausted, and basked in what few seconds of blessed silence it brought him immediately afterwards.

And then it started ringing again, and that was the breaking point.

"Hermione, would you answer the damn phone, please!" he roared, loud enough that he knew she would hear him even in the bathroom. Even through the drilling electronic chime, he could hear the shower shut off.

"I'm coming!" Hermione shouted back, emerging from the bathroom against a backdrop of rolling steam and clad only in a hastily-wrapped towel around her torso. Normally, the sight of Hermione fresh from the shower would be a surefire way to get Ron going, but all that mattered right now was that she get that stupid phone to be quiet once and for all.

She stomped past him, her hair dripping everywhere, outside the bedroom. She reached the coffee table, bent over to grab the phone without her towel completely undoing itself right then and there, and rearranged her impromptu outfit as she put the phone to her ear.

"Silence," Ron sighed with relief as soon as Hermione answered.

"Hello?" Hermione said into the phone, wondering who possibly might have such important business with her that, after over seven sends to voicemail, they were still calling.

"Am I speaking to Dr. Granger?" came a rumbling voice from the other end of the phone.

"Dr. Shacklebolt?" Hermione said incredulously.

"Indeed," Shacklebolt said. "I can't tell you how delighted I am at finally having gotten through. I'm sorry to have called you on your mobile —William Weasley gave me your number—, but it was truly urgent that I speak with you—"

"Dr. Shacklebolt, I would hate to be rude, but this is really not a good time," Hermione sighed. She lost her struggle with the towel: it dropped to the floor and bunched around her ankles, eliciting nothing from Hermione but a resigned grunt and her hands flying over her chest, as if somehow she needed to preserve her modesty in the privacy of her own apartment from an interlocutor on the other end of the phone.

"I know, Dr. Granger, but this is really—"

"Again, Dr. Shacklebolt, to be rude to you is the last thing I want, but please trust me when I say now is anything but a good time," Hermione said, stooping down to collect the limp towel and drape it on her arm. "Can I call you back in ten minutes?"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone as Shacklebolt weighed the request. "Alright," he caved, "but please call me back as soon as humanly possible. It's incredibly important that we speak."

"I'll call you back in ten minutes," Hermione finalized her promise, hanging up and slamming the exasperating phone with a bit too much force back onto the coffee table.

As she walked back into the room, the towel still only over her arm, she felt Ron's eyes trail her, fixated especially on the dimple between her lower back and above her butt which Ron made a point of worshipping every time he had her naked in his arms.

"Nice," he said breathily after a low whistle. "Do you think we could maybe delay...?"

"We're already late for Dean and Seamus's dinner," Hermione deadpanned, halting at the bathroom door to look back at him and nipping Ron's desire in the bud. "And I'm on a timeline. I have to call Shacklebolt back in ten minutes."

"Ordinarily, I would say let it ring," Ron said, settling back into the pillows with a vague pang of warm disappointment under his navel, "but if I hear that bloody phone go off one more time I might just go feral."

"Can you make sure the tart is ready to go, please?" was all Hermione said in response, disappearing back into the bathroom to go through the remainder of her getting-ready routine at lightning speed.

Obediently, Ron swung himself out of bed and crossed the flat to the kitchen in a few strides. He opened the refrigerator and surveyed the tart: a white chocolate tart on a bed of sweet shortbread, sprinkled with blackberries they had found by chance during a marketplace stroll. It was their offering for Dean and Seamus's dinner that night, an occasion their two friends had convocated everyone to but had given little context for, and for which Hermione had offered to bring dessert. Ron didn't mind not having a concrete reason behind the gathering— any chance to see his friends was reason enough, though it did strike him as weird that it had been Dean and Seamus _together_ who had invited them and not just one of them.

He dismissed the thought, dipped a finger into the tart to check for consistency, and when he found it satisfactory he took the tart out of the fridge and placed it on Hermione's kitchen counter. He wrangled it from its mold, careful not to crack the crust, and plated it on a round purple platter with floral motifs. He looked down at his work and smiled contentedly: continued interaction with Hermione had given him an eye for good aesthetic arrangement. Satisfied, he plucked a blackberry from the top of the tart and retreated back into the bedroom, where Hermione was already fully-dressed and out of the bathroom— a feat of speed Ron would've believed from only a few people aside from her.

"Ready to go," he reported happily. Hermione gave him a thumbs-up as she zipped up her knee-length violet shirt. Paired with a cream knit jumper, Ron thought with amusement that she was matching her tart in terms of a color palette.

He watched Hermione wrestle her strapped shoes on and make a futile attempt at untangling her hair. "It's no use," she sighed at the mirror when the brush got stuck in a particularly nasty tangle, with the air of someone for whom this was a daily occurrence. "I'll just let it air-dry and deal with the tangles later."

"Doesn't that make them worse?" Ron pointed out, having already played spectator to several rounds of Hermione vs. her hair, fought out in either of their flats' bathrooms.

"Yes, and I'm sure I'll regret it, but I have..." she snuck a quick glance at her watch even as she finished buckling it around her wrist, "...about _one_ minute before Shacklebolt is due to receive my call, and you know proper untangling takes forever. Which is time we _don't have_ ," she said, and when Ron opened his mouth to protest, she was quick to finish with an added threat, "and time which, if we go over it, will make my phone ring like crazy again."

"You got me there," Ron said. "That's a very real fear, actually. Why don't you call him right now, just to be safe?"

"I will," said Hermione, sliding two pearl earrings into her lobes without even having to check in front of a mirror for where the tiny punctures were. "As soon as I finish..." she let her sentence trail off as she, just as quickly, tried to blindly latch a silver chain with an _H_ on it around her neck.

Ron glanced at the clock on her nightstand: "Hermione, I don't mean to alarm you, but that minute's gone by and the phone's going to start ringing..."

"You're such a child sometimes," Hermione huffed, marching out of the bedroom —having fully gotten ready at record speed— to call Shacklebolt. Ron smirked at her ephemeral temper, and the smirk widened when the indignant cry came from the living room: "I'm calling him now, see?"

A room away, Hermione pressed Shacklebolt's number, as of then still unsaved in her contacts, on her phone's call log. _Shacklebolt must truly be eager_ , she thought, because the phone rang scarcely twice before the line opened up and Shacklebolt's eager "Hello?" rolled through the speaker. It was a humorous image, the big, burly man pouncing on top of his little phone compelled by an anticipation whose cause was still a mystery to Hermione.

"Now's a good time, Dr. Shacklebolt," was Hermione's cheeky greeting.

"Excellent," Shacklebolt said, "because I have such phenomenal news that I thought I might explode if I had to hold them in a second longer."

Only now did Hermione remark on how the note of urgency she had noticed in Shacklebolt's tone wasn't borne of worry, but of excitement. Such outward displays were rare in her mentor, and Hermione felt vaguely unsettled: this was not in the slightest what she had expected it to be, if she even had expected anything in the first place.

"Go on," she said tentatively.

"They found the last scroll," Shacklebolt expelled. The content of his words didn't register in Hermione's mind. "William Weasley and his team, Dr. Granger, just a week or so ago— they found the last scroll."

"And it's real?" she said slowly.

"It's real," Shacklebolt confirmed elatedly. "They finished running the authenticity tests two days ago. William himself came down to examine the tests and discuss the results with the research board. I don't think I'd ever seen him so excited— he even brought his mother along. He said he would see you that night, asked me if he could be the one to break the news, but I said no, not until I got the green light from McGonagall down at the administration of the Linguistics Faculty, but I did just a few minutes ago and I was bursting to tell you."

 _So this is what Bill was showing Molly_ , it dawned on Hermione. It not only fit perfectly with the timeline, but also with Bill's cryptic statements: he'd been aloof about the reason for his visit, he said Hermione would find out soon... This must be what it was.

"I- ah- I'm not sure what this means," she stammered, still trying to make sense of the whole of it.

"It means, Dr. Granger, that you're free to keep pursuing the scroll decodification. You're free to keep investigating your postdoctoral project, and we can pass the PR project to someone else! Wasn't that the condition, after all? That you were to work on the PR project only as a substitute, until your project was back on track? And yes, I know, we had that little mishap with Ms. Skeeter when we thought it was getting canceled or we would have to hand it over, but of course, were you to pass it to someone else right now, it would be under very different circumstances..."

Shacklebolt babbled on, but Hermione was no longer listening. A cold numbness was beginning to spread through her, dousing her from head to toe and rooting her to the spot. So this was it. The exit she would have given anything for scarcely a few months ago— and yet, when had it become a choice she dreaded making? Because that was exactly what it felt like now: she didn't feel the excited such a discovery warranted, but rather felt a stony terror at the crossroads now before her. When had this happened?

"Dr. Granger?" Shacklebolt's voice shook her from her stupor, and her paralysis broke.

"Still here."

"Is anything the matter?"

"No, not at all," Hermione eked out, forcing a strained giggle she hoped wouldn't come out too unnatural.

She had no such luck. "Dr. Granger, are you sure everything's alright? I thought you would be... I don't know, more enthusiastic."

"No, I am, I am, truly," Hermione said hurriedly. "I am, really, I'm just... stunned."

"Stunned in a good way?"

"Yeah!" Hermione squeaked, but her pitch cracked and, with it, the perceived honesty of her words.

"I'm confused, Dr. Granger," said Shacklebolt. "I thought you weren't invested in the publicity project."

Ron appeared in the bedroom door with the same look of confusion Shacklebolt must be bearing right now. Hermione waved him back into the room, frantically signaling that everything was okay and hoping he would believe it. Ron slipped back into the bedroom. "I suppose it's just odd to come to terms with after such a long time. What if I don't even remember how to handle the ropes around that project?"

"Dr. Granger, that would be believable coming from anyone but you," Shacklebolt chastised her. "One doesn't just get their PhD at 25 to lose the thread of their life's project just like that."

"You're right," Hermione sighed. "I'm just taken by surprise. And, yes, I might be a little fonder of the PR project than I may have anticipated at the beginning, but that doesn't mean I'm just going to let this pass me by."

"I see," Shacklebolt hummed on the other end of the line. "Well, it looks like you have a harder choice ahead of you than I thought you would have. I understand. You can't invest time and effort into something and come out completely apathetic to it. But I do need an answer, soon."

"I get it," Hermione said. "I promise I won't keep you waiting long. I just need to think things over."

"Sleep on it," Shacklebolt advised her. "Really think it through. But, at risk of sounding impertinent, please do it fast— we need to solve the question of continued funding as quickly as possible."

"Of course, count on me," Hermione said.

"I always do, Dr. Granger, I always do," said Shacklebolt, and that was his farewell: it took only a few seconds before the line went blank on the other end.

Even without an interlocutor, Hermione stood frozen in the middle of her living room, slowly and dazedly lowering the phone from her ear and down to her side.

"What happened to punctuality?" Ron broke her daze, coming through the bedroom door with a tawny purse swinging from his hand. "I brought your purse— figured most of your stuff is in it, and your phone's here, so it'd save us time."

"You're a wonder," Hermione said, placing a kiss on his cheek. She then walked to the kitchen robotically, inspecting Ron's plating job. "And you did a wonderful job on this."

"Is something off?" Ron asked.

"Nothing's off," Hermione said, not entirely convincingly, as she returned to where Ron was and filed toward the front door. "Why?"

Ron ignored her question: "What did Shacklebolt want?"

"Oh, nothing, just standard procedure for faculty renovation," Hermione said through her teeth, looking away from him.

"You know you're a terrible liar, right?" Ron said as he opened the door for them to go through.

Hermione stopped as she went through the door and looked him pointedly in the face. "Why would I be lying?"

"You're going to tell me sooner or later, aren't you?"

Her answer seemed to quiver on her lips before she finally pushed something out. "Come on, now, we're late," she said, closing the door behind them and scuttling toward the lift. As she pressed the button to call it, Ron had the sense that her turning her back on him so hastily had been deliberate. She was hiding something, he thought as they both let themselves into the elevator, and he was sure to find it out.

* * *

Hermione acted strangely throughout the whole dinner— at least in Ron's eyes. To the rest of the attendees that filled Dean's flat —a stylish, spacious loft whose tasteful décor and innovative configuration were only fit for an architect's lodgings— she might have looked perfectly normal, behaving in perhaps a slightly more charming fashion than her usual demeanor and embodying the very face of friendliness. But she couldn't fool Ron: she was avoiding him, and he had his eye on her. Enough to know that, every time she finished laughing at a joke or engaging in a piece of chatter, her gaze fell and her expression withered, and a troubled look clouded over her features. She would keep that look until someone else engaged her in conversation, at which point she bounced back into a springy, sociable character whose animated chatter fluttered atop the guests.

This didn't change even when her tart became the center of the conversation at the dinner table. Even when Hermione's pastry skills were showered with praise, all she could muster was a sheepish little smile that was taken for a show of humility by the rest of the guests, though the Hermione Ron knew would have been much less abashed at her own accomplishments.

The final straw came when the purpose behind the night and the joint dinner was revealed. Clearing his throat, Dean rose from his chair and called all six of their remaining friends to attention. Somewhat more slowly, Seamus stood up beside him.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming," Dean said, still clearing his throat between phrases, a clear let-on as to how nervous he was. Luna, Neville, Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny, for whom such a soirée seldom entailed such a speech, stared at him curiously. Dean pushed himself onward: "The reason we wanted to have you all over tonight, for dinner, all together, was that, uh, well... There is something Seamus and I have been meaning to tell you all about for quite some time now, but hadn't brought ourselves around to."

The six of them drew in a collective gasp when Dean reached stiffly for Seamus's hand, wringing it anxiously as he brought it into view. Seamus smiled at Dean and squeezed his hand once in reassurance, and some of the tension in Dean's shoulders seemed to melt away. "Seamus and I are together. We have been, for a while. But we don't want to keep it in the dark any further. Hence..." he gestured vaguely to the table before them, with a lopsided grin. "Hence all this. We wanted to celebrate with you all, and hope... well, hope you're as happy as we are."

The table erupted into a joyous surge: everyone got up from their seats and rushed to embrace Dean and Seamus, lavishing them with well-wishing and honest expressions of how happy they were for them. Somewhat flustered from all the attention, Dean and Seamus were nonetheless unable to stop grinning. And, amid the flurry of affection, Ron noticed that Hermione had merely stepped in for a brief hug and then drawn away with the same pensive look upon her face.

That was when he knew, without a doubt, that something was wrong, and resolved to ask her about it the first chance he got.

That chance came after dinner, when Dean was taking Luna, Neville, and Ginny —who had never visited— on a tour of his (and, now, Seamus's) loft. That left Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Hermione in the living room, where Seamus and Harry were quick to become engulfed in a discussion of the English football prospects for the coming season.

Hermione sat, ankles crossed and neck bowed, at the edge of a puffy white armchair, staring fixedly down at an unspecified spot on the floorboards. Ron sidled up to her, sitting beside her and pressing the sides of their thighs together as they sat. "You alright?"

"Hmm?" Hermione said, looking up with glazed eyes.

"You've been acting weird all dinner," Ron said, drawing an arm around her shoulders lightly. "Since we left the flat, come to think of it."

"I haven't been acting weird," Hermione said defensively, but Ron's cocked eyebrow and slacking mouth made it clear she wasn't fooling him. She sighed: "Alright, fine, there _is_ something on my mind. But I'm not sure I want to talk about it right now— it's big, and the last thing I would want is to steal Dean and Seamus's thunder."

"When we get back to the flat," Ron said agreeably. Aware that this meant this would be the last thing she'd want to talk about right now, he changed the subject. "So, Dean and Seamus, huh?"

"I already knew," Hermione said with a slight smirk.

"I mean, I think we all did, but it's kinda shitty if you come out to your friends and all they say is 'we knew'—"

"No, I mean I _really_ knew. They told me a while ago, because they let it slip while I was with them— at that football practice where you hit me right in the face, actually. But they asked me to keep it a secret until they were ready to tell."

"That was kind of you," Ron said.

"It's basic decency," Hermione shrugged, but smiled at him nevertheless. "It wasn't mine to tell."

"And will you tell me what's yours to tell?" Ron said, unable to keep himself from it. "Whatever this is?"

"Back at the flat," Hermione said in a whisper that sounded like a promise. Content with that, he leaned forward and pressed a chaste, loving kiss to her lips.

The rest of the evening elapsed with little else to stand out: aside from a brief stint at poker where Neville, much to the general outrage and disbelief, stood out as the champion, everything else that happened was to be expected from an evening spent with friends.

At the end of the night, Dean and Seamus waved their friends farewell from the door of their flat, Dean with a comfortable arm around Seamus's shoulders and Seamus reciprocating in kind around Dean's waist. Ron and Hermione smiled at their friends as they said their goodbyes, and wove through the streets in the all-too-common walk they both now knew as the expected conclusion to their evenings together.

"They look happy, don't they?" Hermione said as they walked.

"Of course they do," Ron said, reaching for her hand and taking it lightly. "Remember how happy _we_ were when we made things official?"

Their clasped hands swung between them as they walked, and they trod the last few steps to Hermione's flat in silence, basking in each other's company. When they entered Hermione's flat, the silence was still there, and remained as they mechanically went through their respective nighttime routines. They remained quiet until Ron lowered himself into bed with a creak, turning off the lamp on the nightstand as he pulled the duvet over him.

"Are you going to tell me now?" he whispered, scooting closer to Hermione under the covers.

Hermione sighed. "So remember how Bill's visit was shrouded in mystery? Turns out he came to campus because he and his team found the last scroll. From the cave system I was studying, I mean."

Ron's face remained blank before stark recognition drew itself across it, and the meaning of Bill's discovery dawned on him. "You're going back to your original research."

"No," Hermione said hastily, eliciting a confused expression from Ron. "What I mean is... I don't know. Because it would mean abandoning the PR project."

Ron remained silent for a few seconds. "And that's what you want."

"It used to be. But I'm not sure it is anymore. I had always imagined that when the news finally came, I'd be too happy to do anything else other than happily accept. But when I got the call from Shacklebolt, all I felt was dread. At having to choose, I mean. And that wasn't a feeling I'd expected."

Ron gave a murmur of assent. "Must've been weird. When it turned out in exactly the way you hadn't envisioned."

"But that's been everything about this PR project, really," said Hermione. "Nothing, nothing, yourself included, has turned out the way I thought it would, yet somehow that's what I love the most about it."

Her fondness for the project was apparent in the sad smile she paired her words with: the pain inherent in this choice was evident. Ron reached out and set his hand on her shoulder, rubbing small circles on her skin with his thumb.

"What I would say is to do what feels right."

"But it's so much more complicated than that," Hermione huffed. "On the one hand, if I turn down the opportunity to return to my research, it'd feel like I'm turning my back on a dream. But the PR project has become something that I feel I _need_ to conclude, something that's the only right way to end this year— and besides, what am I going to tell everyone? I feel like I'm letting you all down."

"You don't owe any of us your dreams."

"No, I know, but it feels like this has become a sort of dream by itself. Or a vehicle for dreams, at least. I mean, when I wonder whether I _maybe_ helped Dean and Seamus gather the courage to come out, or whether I _maybe_ encouraged Harry and Draco to talk about their issues, or whether I _maybe_ helped you get your PhD back on track... it feels like I wouldn't only be turning my back on the project, but on all of that, and on all of you."

"Hermione, love, I'm grown," Ron said, the first-time pet name melting from Ron's lips and seeping into Hermione's skin where his fingers touched her. "I can't deny that you were elemental in me getting my shit together, but the fact of the matter is that I'm back on track now. I'm back on track, and thanks to you. And the last thing that means is that you _owe_ me anything— hell, if anything, I should be repaying _you_. What it means is that you've selflessly placed yourself aside for a while to watch and help others flourish. Just think: you've come to my football games, which you wouldn't have been caught dead at, just for me, and Harry, and Ginny. You've done everything for everyone that asked while we've had this project going. It's even brought you into my life for good this time, with no McLaggen in the middle, and that is something I will always be grateful for."

"But...?"

"What do you mean 'but'?"

"There's gotta be a 'but' at the end of all this."

"Of course there is," Ron said, pulling her closer and using his other hand to brush her cheek, against the ivory pillow. "Sure, this project has achieved all these great things, has been so great for all of us, _but_ it's time to do what you love."

"I don't think that's a particularly important consideration in academia."

"No, but it's an important consideration for me, and it should be for you too. Isn't that the whole point of academia, anyway? You pour yourself into these excruciating projects, and into unsolvable questions that turn into intellectual alleyways, because it's what you love to do. So what's the point in being a scholar if you're not madly passionate about whatever it is you're pouring your soul into?" 

Hermione looked at the ceiling, shuffling closer to Ron but avoiding his gaze. Ron's finger now trailed to the corner of her lips, tracing the delicate bow of the slightly plump pout he had so often kissed. 

"Hermione, I know you're used to always doing what you _should_ do, and not what you _want_ to do. I know you've been pushed to success since before you were old enough to pronounce the word properly. But I think —and I might be wrong, but I doubt it— that nothing you do is really worth it if you don't love it. So, I mean... If you want my advice, don't let the deciding factor this time be what you _should_ do. Decide according to what you _want_."

Hermione lay in silence for a few moments, lost in thought, before her voice finally broke through, so faintly it was almost solely a rumor. "You're right."

"What a thing to hear, coming from Dr. Hermione Jean Granger," Ron smiled.

"Y'know, Ron," Hermione said, interrupting the flow of her sentence with a fleeting kiss, "if you'd gotten kicked off your PhD, you could've just been a motivational speaker. One of those wise-man types in films."

"Luckily, that's an option I don't even have to consider," Ron chuckled. "And that's, once again, thanks to you and your innate organization skills."

"Don't flatter me," Hermione said without really meaning it. "You're going to blow up my ego."

"But isn't the key to academia a huge ego? To barrel through all the skeptics and defend your work?"

"There sure are a lot of points to academia in your world," Hermione muttered, rolling over to settle into the curve of Ron's body.

"Well, isn't that another point of academia?" Ron posed, his arm familiarly draping around Hermione's midriff. "That there's not really only _one_ point to a thing—?"

"Save that for epistemology," Hermione grumbled sleepily, taking Ron's hand and guiding it to the warm hollow between her breasts, a position more of comfort than a sexual advance. "But maybe at an earlier time."

"I'll save it for now," Ron said, lifting his torso to press a kiss to Hermione's cheek. "Good night, love."

Hermione was sure the hand on her chest could feel her heart glowering at the tentative pet name. "Good night, darling."

And if Ron couldn't feel the warmth coming from her, he certainly felt it encased within his own chest when those two syllables fell from her lips as the last thing she would say that night.


	52. Chapter 52

"Now or never."

"The more you say that, the less effective it is," said Hermione as she eyed the phone on the coffee table —the very spot where it had sat scarcely fourteen hours ago— queasily.

"I know, I know," Ron said. "It's just it makes me feel less nervous when I say it. Like a shot of adrenaline."

"Why are _you_ nervous?" smirked Hermione, turning around on her couch to eye him disbelievingly. "You're not the one making a once-in-a-lifetime career decision."

"No, but I don't know what that decision is going to be because you won't tell me, and _that's_ what makes me nervous."

"You're hearing before anyone else, so shut it," said Hermione, lifting the phone from the table and letting a precarious finger dangle over Shacklebolt's number (now saved, thankfully, under a contact). "Ready?"

"Why are you asking me if _I'm_ ready?" Ron whined, mimicking her earlier tone. "You're the one making a once-in-a-lifetime career decision."

"Do you wanna be on this call or not?"

His silence was assent enough, as he settled back onto the couch with folded arms and a leg crossed widely atop the other. Hermione turned back toward the cellphone, teetering on the edge of the sofa, and was just about to press it when she suddenly jerked back and wagged a scolding finger at Ron.

"Remember the rules. Be quiet the whole time, don't distract me, and don't react when I say the news."

"Yes, yes, I know, it's got to be as if I wasn't there," Ron said dismissively. "Now will you just dial the damn number already, woman?"

Ron's impatience infused her with the shot of adrenaline his 'now-or-never' mantra had failed to do, and she automatically brought her finger down onto the little 'call' icon. There was no turning back now. Hermione felt her gut wrench, twisting tighter with every echoing ring that reverberated off the flat's walls.

Ron began to protest: "For someone who pestered you with calls the other day, you'd think he'd be more aware of his phone—"

Hermione waved at him to shut it when the ringing abruptly cut out and Shacklebolt's voice rumbled from the other end of the line. "Hello?"

"Dr. Shacklebolt, it's Dr. Granger," Hermione said cordially, and Ron wondered how on earth she managed to sound so peppy and proper when she was, in all certainty, little else than a bundle of nerves.

"Ah, Dr. Granger, I've been waiting to hear from you! This is about your... small dilemma, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

"Marvelous. Very prompt to get back to me, as per usual, timeliness has never been your weakness... Well, what's the decision?"

Hermione inhaled profoundly through her nose, feeling the cool air fill her lungs. This was it, this was the moment her foreseeable professional future hung on, and she couldn't screw it up. The slightest err in tact or phrasing might cost her a project. She was acutely aware of Ron's eyes, wide as platters, practically boring a hole through her, and she knew that Shacklebolt was hanging on to her every word on the other end. She let out the breath she had drawn, steadied herself, and swallowed before making her announcement.

"I have decided," she said cautiously, sensing how Ron leaned forward with every syllable of her words, "that I will continue to pursue the PR project."

Ron let escape an audible gasp, which earned him a swat on the knee from Hermione and a deathly glare in which the words 'shut up' could not have been clearer if they'd spelled it out in lasers. It was of no matter, though: Shacklebolt, on the other end, was likely too stupefied to have paid attention to such an overseeable sound.

"The- the PR project?" Shacklebolt stammered incredulously.

"Yes," Hermione said hurriedly, as if she needed to reassert her decision before she second-guessed it. "I want to take a brief researcher's leave from the scrolls project. Just for two months or so— that's when the final draft of the PR project is due, after all. It would only be temporary, but it would give me enough time to tie up this project properly before diving into the next."

"But, Dr. Granger, you are aware that this might compromise your funding? That such a suspension will make it harder for you to find grants, both internal and external?"

"I know, I know. I've thought it all through, and I know this is something I'll have to live with. But the PR project is something I have to finish. I can't explain it— I just _have_ to. You said it yourself, Dr. Shacklebolt, you understand— you can't pour so much time and effort into something like this and not expect your heart to tumble in with the lot. It won't be long now till it's done, but it wouldn't be right for anyone other than me to see it through."

Shacklebolt pondered in silence for a few instants. "So what shall I say to the research committee?"

Hermione let out a sigh of relief that what had come hadn't been a chastisement or an expression of disappointment, but a request for what to do. It meant Shacklebolt, even in his disagreement, supported her. "Please tell them that I'll be taking a researcher's leave from here until mid-April. At that point, I'll turn in the final draft of the PR project and be back on the research board. If they need any Linguistics undergrads needed to perform clerical functions until then, I'll be happy to submit a list of names of my most capable and best-fitted students."

"Your wish is my command," Shacklebolt said, his words measured out slowly, letting on that he was committing Granger's proceedings to memory to recite them to a research board in the following days. "Dr. Granger, I don't mean to sound impertinent, and this will be the first and last time I ask— but are you entirely sure?"

"Wholeheartedly," Hermione answered adamantly, no trace of doubt or hesitation in her voice now.

"Well, then, I'm satisfied. You know I trust your judgement, always have, and I cannot stop doing that now. Very well, Dr. Granger, I'll let the research board know. Consider it sorted. And, in the meantime, work hard on that PR project— I want a first draft on my desk by the third week of March, and the entirety of it turned in by April 15th, according to your own timeline."

"So it will be done," Hermione assured him.

"As always, I do not doubt it. Goodbye, Dr. Granger, and thank you for getting back to me so quickly," Shacklebolt ended as abruptly as usual, and the line went blank before Hermione could get any other words in.

Setting the phone down, she turned to face Ron, whose mouth was still agape with the surprise of her news.

"I did _not_ think that was going to be the outcome," he finally sputtered out. "When I told you to do what you love..."

"Was it so farfetched to think that I might love all of this?" Hermione said, finally reclining against the couch and away from the edge. Her back lodged between the cushions. "What gave me Ginny, gave me Neville, gave me Draco, gave me Dean & Thomas, gave me you?"

She accompanied the final word, that telling 'you', with a brush of the back of her hand against Ron's freckled cheek. His skin seemed to melt under her touch. 

"It feels good, I won't lie," he said softly. "To think all this can be as important to you as the project of your dreams."

"This turned into a dream of its own along the way," Hermione said, echoing the very sentiment she had professed in bed last night when deliberating this. "Sure, a wacky, nonsensical, almost sort of fever dream, but it only feels right to finish it. I can't turn my back on it now."

"Ever so consistent," Ron smiled, leaning forward to kiss her deeply. Hermione relished in the warmth of his lips fitted on hers, kissing back with as much familiarity as eagerness. Ron pulled away and smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face, like he so often did in those moments of subsequent tenderness. "So, what do you want to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are we going to tell the others about this?"

Hermione thought about it for a moment. "No," she answered decisively. "There's no point in it, considering things have stayed pretty much the same. No need to rock the boat. I also don't want anyone feeling guilty, as if they're somehow responsible for my choice in postponing my other project for this one. I want this to end on the sweet note it deserves, and that would only sour it. The only thing is I'll have to work at double the speed..."

"This is your own fault for setting yourself on such a stringent timeline," Ron jokingly chastised her, savoring the feeling of being the one doing the reprimanding for once. Hermione caught on to this and gave him a light, playful smack on the shoulder. "We'll keep it between us. Is that all?"

Hermione, again, let her mind flip through the options and ideas before the hint of a smile pushed through her pensive expression. "We should have a small celebration, even if only you and I know what it's all about. Invite everyone over tonight, have dinner, play a few rounds of cards... That would be nice."

"But what reason do we give them, if we're not going to tell them about this? A random dinner, out of nowhere, especially with Dean and Seamus's just having been yesterday?"

"Isn't it reason enough to just have friends?" Hermione's smile broke through fully now, weighing a corner of her mouth more heavily downward and offsetting the symmetry of her face in a delightful manner. "After all, that's the best part about the project at the center of this, isn't it? Why I stayed on?"

Ron returned her smile and fished for his phone in his pocket. "Alright, I'll shoot them all a text."

Hermione grinned widely as she watched him reach out to their friends for that spur-of-the-moment convocation, his fingers dancing nimbly on his phone's keyboard. Before she allowed her mind to delve into the preparations for that night (what would they cook? How should they lay out the table? What would she wear?), she noticed a rare lightness breathing in her chest. It was nice, finally, to feel the absence of weight.

And she knew, without a shadow of doubt, that she had made the right choice in allowing these very friendships she so treasured to be the deciding factor in the crossroads she had just gotten herself out of.


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a fluffier, more transitional chapter today. :) But we're making steady progress toward our ending, and some Romione fluff never goes astray, right?

"Come to bed," came a pleading groan from between the sheets and the thick duvet. In the sea of white, only the shock of red hair let on that Ron was buried there, shrouded in blankets and pillows.

"I can't," Hermione said softly, though every nerve in her body ached to. "I can't, I have to finish typing this up."

"Can't you do it tomorrow?"

"No. Self-imposed deadline, you and I both agreed that we had to go hard on those, or else I'm never going to finish," Hermione said, frowning as she rapidly clicked the 'delete' key to eradicate a misplaced word from where it didn't belong.

"All you do lately is work," Ron grumbled, his voice muffled by the pillows. "What's a man got to do around here to get his girlfriend to sleep with him?"

"Let his girlfriend finish her day's work," Hermione said with a slight laugh. "Seriously, I'm almost done."

Ron was right, she thought as she let her fingers roam across her keyboard, banging out one sentence after another. All she _had_ been doing lately was work. But she couldn't be blamed: Shacklebolt had consented to this temporary arrangement under the condition that she be as timely as possible, and that had been at the forefront of her mind during the last few weeks. Letting her hands type almost by themselves, she allowed her mind to wander to a recollection of the most notable events of the last few weeks.

The day after she had spoken with Shacklebolt and given him her decision, her phone had rung with an unfamiliar number.

"Hey, Hermione, it's Bill," the friendly voice —instantly recognizable— had cheerfully greeted her. Hermione had felt a sense of unexpected fear swell up in her stomach, fearing Bill might have called to reprimand her for her decision or express his disappointment, but he was quick to assuage those fears. "I heard about it from Kingsley— Shacklebolt, that is. He says you're on researcher's leave till April. I just wanted to make sure to check in and let you know that it's not a problem with me, nor will it be with the Archaeology department."

"Thank you," Hermione had said, hoping her relief was evident in her tone.

"Of course. Kingsley told me you were finishing the PR project, and though I barely know anything about it beyond what you told us at New Year's, it sounds like it's important to you. So I just wanted to tell you that, that you don't have to worry about me. And that I wish you good luck with finishing this project."

"Thank you, Bill, really."

"Don't mention it. And Hermione?"

"Hm?"

"I can't wait to work with you in April."

That had been it, and he had hung up almost right after, but his approval had infused Hermione with such a sense of confidence and security that she had barreled through the day's work and the next one's all in the space of a few hours, feeling certain that she had made the right choice and having Bill's validation fueling her for those first few days of almost-nonstop final interviews.

Those weeks had also held the women's football finals, where, as was expected, the Ginny-led University team obtained the victory over Ilvermorny, whose passing to finals had indeed been little but a stroke of rare luck. That was the night Hermione had allowed herself to put off her work briefly, to join in the revelry that having not one, but _two_ football championships in a year obviously entailed, and had regretted it the next morning when she'd woken up with a slight headache (undoubtedly a product of the mild beer Ron had encouraged her to try and she had ended up finishing, despite her subpar handling of alcohol) and a sense of dread at seeing last night's transcriptions piled up on her desk. However, as she sifted through that pile, that regret evaporated as soon as her phone buzzed with a happy text from Ginny: 'thank u for being there last night :)'. Seven words and a smiling emoticon, and suddenly all was breezy again— even if it did cost Hermione several late-nighters to catch up with that evening's put-off transcriptions.

Her last-ever interview with Draco had also been worthy of attention, considering that they had been joined by chirpy little Astor. With the slim, milky-skinned brunet in front of her, Hermione felt almost as if _she_ were the one being interviewed.

"And you don't like lectures? How did you get your PhD at 25? How did you and Draco meet? Did you ever switch your field of study? Are you even _allowed_ to switch your field of study? Are you on the football team? What's the best pastry to get at Puddifoot Patisserie?"

Surprisingly, Hermione found Astor charming rather than irritating. His energy was contagious, as was his thin-lipped smile, and Hermione couldn't help but notice that some of it seemed to be rubbing off on Draco. He looked fuller, his face had more color, and his skin wasn't pulled in a taut sneer over his face but rather soft over his cheeks, relaxed into an easy smile that was light years away from his usual smirk. Simply put, he looked much happier, and Hermione had left that interview feeling good in the safety that Draco was in very good (albeit almost child-sized) hands.

Hermione had been quick to tie up loose ends, finalize interviews that still needed to be driven home just slightly further, and had been engrossed in the arduous labor of transcribing each oral interview for most of the past few weeks. 

Transcription was her nightmare: she had to pause, rewind, and strain her ears to make sure she had gotten every last letter of the words she was hearing. After she was done transcribing, the entirety of the interview on paper, she would go through the recording again to jot down annotations in the margins pertaining to tone or nonverbal sounds, such as laughs, changes in intonation, and pauses or hesitation. Because it had to be thorough, the work was long-drawn and dreary, and a single interview could take Hermione the entire day.

Ron had observed this, and missed no chance to tease her about it. "Ever thought about digitalizing?" was how it usually started, Ron leaning against the doorframe of whatever room Hermione was working in.

"You know my feelings about this little recorder," Hermione would say, raising her gaze from her work and accompanying it with a cocked eyebrow.

"But that's because you haven't heard of speech-to-text software, being stuck in 1970 as you are," Ron would say, sliding into whatever seat was available nearby (often, that seat would be the dining room table, the coffee table, or the nightstand). "With that, you would be doing half the work at double the pace."

"But I'm such a romantic," Hermione would protest, clutching the paused recorder to her chest. "I savor every word. Each painful letter I inscribe is a beat my heart pumps."

"Just be a poet already," Ron would grumble jokingly, defeated, and leave his perch to allow Hermione to continue working undisturbed.

But it got harder to leave Hermione to her own devices as the day got on and melted into night, and that difficulty was certainly manifesting itself tonight that Ron, buried in bedcovers and aching for Hermione's warm body in his arms, was having to confine himself to watching ruefully as Hermione typed away, chained to her desk.

She was no longer drowning in transcriptions, devoting herself mostly to the actual writing that would be published as part of the PR effort, meaning the work was much more desirable but significantly more challenging, requiring more brainpower than merely jotting down existing words onto a page.

The rational part of Ron's mind understood that, knowing that Hermione was hard at work in the intellectual equivalent of a marathon, she would have to work later and that was just part of the job. But his body screamed out for her, yearned for her, missed her every second he had to lie in bed without her.

"Hermione..." he whined for her again from within his linen nest, growing increasingly impatient for her touch.

"I'm going, I'm going, just let me tie up this last sentence," Hermione said, her typing growing more frantic and gaining in pace as her fingers now flew across the keys, knowing her reply to Ron had been nothing short of a promise.

The sound of the laptop —at long last— shutting was heavenly music to Ron's ears. The soft, monosyllabic thud was akin to a melodious symphony of cherubs making celestial trumpets sing. And every step that Hermione took, one step closer toward joining him in bed, added a note to that blissful harmony.

Few feelings compared to the delight that leaped in his chest when, at last, the covers lifted and Hermione's slim body, shrouded in her dotted silk pajamas, slid into bed next to him. 

"Hi," he whispered, pulling her close as soon as she'd shut off the nightstand lamp and he could draw her close enough to kiss her. She would return the kiss sweetly, relishing this end of the day as deeply as he did. "Hi, I've missed you."

"I was eight feet away from you," Hermione laughed softly, a laugh interrupted by yet another kiss.

"Yes, but it's hard. I like going to bed with you. I know you're doing what you love, and all that cheesy stuff, and I love seeing my hot doctoral girlfriend go— but nothing makes me happier than the moment right now."

"It's only for a little while longer," Hermione said, her hand lifting the shirt off his back and settling along his warm, freckled back, a small form of intimacy that nevertheless inebriated her with contact. "Only for a little while."

"How many to go?" Ron asked, bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a small kiss to it. "How many interviews until I get you back?"

She didn't give him a number— she never did. "I'm almost done, Ron, just trust me on that. Almost there."

"That's what you say every time," he would grumble, the beginnings of sleep beginning to seep through in an adorable grogginess, and he would let his lips get briefly lost in his for one last kiss before he went to sleep, believing maybe, _maybe_ , this time it would be true.


	54. Chapter 54

Spring formal felt significantly cheerier than its autumnal counterpart. Although they were identical in name and concept, the late-year event carried a more dignified air, a feeling of anticipation and wanting to impress the other attendees, whereas its early-April sibling carried a sense of letting-go and of pure enjoyment, undoubtedly having to do with its proximity to the end of term.

This freshness, this lightness, may also have something to do with the difference in attires. The English chill, so present in the fall, called for heavier fabrics and longer gowns, for closely-buttoned three-piece suits and coats over long-sleeved dresses. But as spring melted past the iciness, the first dredges of sunny warmth beginning to pierce through the wintery cold, the clothes got lighter and brighter, insulating garments discarded in favor of floral patterns and airy layers.

Though Hermione had never been one for patterned clothing, beyond pinstripes and tartan, this lightness was also tangible in the dress she had chosen for this evening. She had gone for a sky-blue chiffon-and-crepe dress that reached her ankles, and whose round neckline scooped her cleavage into a flattering shape flanked by the flutter of the half-moon short sleeves that hung from her shoulders.

But this time, the arm she clung to was not McLaggen's, but a thinner, paler arm, belonging to Ron's. Dressed to match her in a standard black suit with a sky-blue pocket square (having wanted to don one since their dinner with Molly), they walked into the dinner hall in a sort of floating pace, considerably lighter than the last time they had entered a formal hall. This time, there was no pulling by McLaggen on Hermione's forearm, trying to string her along to show her off like some accessory, and there was no overbearing possessiveness by Lavender, whose iron grip had left a nasty red welt on Ron's arm following the end of last formal.

"Are we the first ones here?" Ron asked as they stepped into the hall, scanning the half-full space for a free table that would seat the standard eight.

"Really? You'd expect any of the others to arrive on time?" Hermione smiled. Her gaze found an empty table near the middle, by a wall, and she gestured toward it with her head, Ron walking promptly beside her to lay claim to it.

"No, not really," he said, his long stride gaining on Hermione's shorter steps, an inequality that was made up for because Hermione's graceful swiftness allowed her to match in speed what an occasional clumsiness detracted from Ron's. "But, then again, before you, I would've been the last one to get here."

"That's what I am to you all, isn't it?" Hermione said with mock offense as they got to the table. "A wind-up clock that's never a second off?"

"That's part of it, yeah," Ron teased back. "Should we put something on the chairs so no one takes them?"

"Not very classy, is it?" Hermione said as she lowered herself into a chair, careful that her dress wouldn't snag on anything along the way.

"Trust me, you run the risk of Ernie Macmillan joining our party," Ron said, shuddering at the memory of his last formal experience.

"Oh, I know Ernie," Hermione said with amusement. "We were together in an academic writing workshop a few years back. What do you mean you don't like Ernie?"

"I mean my liking of people is inversely proportional to their verbosity."

"So why are you dating me?"

"Because, as we said before, you're a... how did you put it? A wind-up clock that's never a second off?"

"Glad to know my punctuality is a turn-on."

"Everything about you is a turn-on," Ron said, his hand finding its way under the tablecloth to perch on Hermione's thigh, only the thin chiffon layer separating him from her bare skin. The sultriness was shattered by a memory from months ago: "On the subject of punctuality, actually, I have a funny story."

"Oh?" Hermione said, her interest perking up. "And what would that be?"

"Remember that first dreadful breakfast at the Three Broomsticks that I invited you to?"

"You mean the one where we almost had a screaming match because you thought I was dating Draco Malfoy?" Hermione said, grinning with the recollection.

"Yes, the very one."

"How could I forget?"

"Okay, well, before you got there, we had something of a bet about whether you'd turn up. Because it was 8:58, and you're crazy punctual, and it was two minutes to go till 9 and there was still no sign of you. So we made a bet, the flipping-spoons kind of bet, about whether you'd turn up. And everyone bet you wouldn't except me."

Hermione smiled, a new memory that wasn't even hers implanting itself firmly into her consciousness. "So you've known me well even before you really knew me. Of course I'd be there at nine, but at nine on the dot, not before and not after. Nice to see you had faith in me from the beginning."

"Not where Draco Malfoy was concerned, to be completely honest with you."

"Well, it was that dreadful Tweet that cooked up such a storm between us. A simple miscommunication, and look what we made of it."

"Well, yes, you poured scalding hot tea on me—"

"You were with Lavender!" Hermione said, laughing openly, knowing the revival of the argument brought no ill will but rather a friendly banter that was the bread and butter of their relationship. "But you seriously shouldn't have worried about Draco. I mean, look at him now," she said and nodded toward a table a few tables over.

Draco and Astor were sitting there, Draco in a three-piece suit that looked all white, because, with the black jacket discarded and draped over the back of the chair, the white vest popped all the more. Astor, by his side, stood out in a forest-green floral suit, which was an odd choice for a formal event but was well-suited to what little of his personality Hermione knew, and he had a small hand on Draco's cheek as he babbled to him about something unintelligible to Hermione. Draco caught her eye and looked away from Astor, who he was gazing at dotingly, to give her a slight twitch of a recognizing smile.

"I actually feel kind of happy for the bugger," commented Ron, and Hermione knew just how huge a victory on the Draco front that was when Ron was concerned.

They were brought out of the memory's lull when Ginny and Harry interrupted their collective train of thought with their arrival —as noisy as usual—, Harry sitting down next to Ron and Ginny on his other hand, almost across from Hermione.

It didn't take long until the rest of their friends arrived: Neville and Luna came together but not _together_ , their attire as comically discordant as possible, though in all likelihood it hadn't been intended. Luna wore a sun-colored cross between a maxi skirt and a sarong that was horribly patched over with a quilt of different fabrics in the randomest places, and that was no doubt her attempt at a spring-themed pattern. Neville, on the other hand, looked like he had been stuffed into a tuxedo-shaped tube that was constricting his chest, his face a burning red atop the collar, and he didn't say hello so much as puffed it out. Hermione didn't have the heart to tell them that the whole problem might be in that his ascot was tied wrong, and too tightly, by the looks of it.

The highlight of the arrivals, however, was Dean and Seamus's joint appearance. They materialized at the door of the hall, two figures —one slim, one stout— looking smart in all black, their hands clasped together in the middle. As they approached the table, where they filled in the last two seats, they continued to hold each other's hands, and with every foot closer they got it was more and more evident how giddy they looked.

With the table filled, Ron was certain that they had gotten all of the greetings out of the way, but to his surprise, a hand perched on his shoulder from behind, startling him from a particularly funny joke Harry was in the middle of.

"Sorry to interrupt," the sugary voice reached his ears, and Ron jerked around with a start: Lavender had been the last person he had expected to drop by. "I just wanted to say hello."

Lavender looked her usual intense self, though considerably less wound-up, in a deep purple cocktail dress. Her hair had parted from the usual loose curls that fell down her back, having been swept up into an updo that Hermione thought must've weighed a considerable amount.

Ron looked toward Hermione in panic, expecting to see her face pucker up with sour recognition, but he was surprised to see none of that. Though the sudden straightening of her back made it evident that she had stiffened a bit at the sight, she looked at Lavender with a polite, if not entirely friendly, smile.

"That's very kind, Lavender," she said, and Ron detected no poison in her voice. Hermione noticed the tall, curly-haired man with dark brown hair beside her. "Are we to be introduced?"

"What? Oh, this is Justin," Lavender said, her tone melting into an even sweeter hum, as she stepped closer to the man and placed a hand on his chest. "He's a friend of Ernie's. We're... we're going out, have been for a few weeks."

She let the words escape her lungs tentatively, as if they held a confession she wasn't particularly keen on making the table privy to. But Ron knew that tone, and he knew what Lavender was looking for. He wouldn't voice his approval outright, but he did rise from his chair and turn to give Justin a firm handshake.

"How do you do, Justin?" was all he said, but the transformation of Lavender's uneasy smile into a solid grin showed that that had been all she had needed.

"We should go," Lavender said hastily after the handshake was broken. "They're waiting for us, Justin."

Ron followed her gaze to a table at which Ernie Macmillan and Parvati Patil, as well as a few other sociologists, were sitting— a table he felt very glad to have been excluded from.

Justin nodded and, as farewell, addressed Neville: "See you Monday, Nev?"

"See you then," Neville said, and Justin was contented with that. He and Lavender ambled over to their table, his hand on her back.

When they were out of earshot, the table stared incredulously at Neville, who felt caught in a line of fire. It was Ginny who verbalized what they were all thinking: "You know him?"

"Yeah, Justin Finch-Fletchley. Botanist. Works at the greenhouse with me," Neville shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

Ginny kept pushing: "So you guys are colleagues?"

"Yeah, he's a friend."

An awkward bump of silence elapsed before Ginny ventured even further. "And you knew about his going out with Lavender?"

"Yeah, why?" Neville said nonchalantly.

Again, the silence. Ginny continued: "And you didn't tell us?"

Now Neville had caught the gist, and he looked somewhat uncomfortable: "Well, uh— no, I didn't."

"Why?"

Neville cleared his throat and kept his eyes firmly glued to the embroidered tablecloth as he practically coughed out the next words. "Well, after what happened with the Tweet, I didn't wanna stir the pot any more."

Now all eyes were on Ron and Hermione, who looked at one another almost accusingly before bursting out laughing. The bubble of tension surrounding the table popped with relieving ease.

"We _are_ irritatingly dramatic, aren't we?" said Hermione, leaning in against Ron's shoulder.

"Speak for yourself. I've never been anything but rational," Ron said, throwing an arm around her shoulders and drawing her in closer to his side.

To Ron and Hermione, this formal was everything they'd dreamed of and been deprived of a couple of seasons ago. The food was delicious, as per usual, but was even more enjoyable in the company of a group of people whom they actually wanted to be around. Conversation flowed easily, fluttering between topics that pertained to one of them or them all, friendly words bubbling as airily as the bubbles in the champagne flutes they each had in front of them. 

But, most importantly, Ron thought, it wasn't only good to have come here, it was good to have come with Hermione. The woman that sat to his right, at times under his loose embrace, others holding his hand under the table, her bare elbows brushing against the fabric of his suit as they took cutlery to their plates, every touch and heatwave she emitted seemed tailor-made for him only, and sent a shivering warmth down to the very marrow in his bones. She made everything she touched better, and that applied to each portion of his world she impregnated.

It would be cliché, and not entirely accurate, to describe her as a ray of sunshine. She wasn't always cheerful, upbeat, didn't always lighten the mood what with her usual stress and her occasional scolding demeanor. But she was a gulp of water, the first drink you had with a parched throat. Sure, quite like water, she could warrant caution at times, but she was refreshing, she was a need to him, and to go too long without her was to thirst for her. 

_Water_.

All this talk (or rather, thought) of water sent a flare up near his bladder, and he was suddenly aware of an acute need to pee.

"I've got to take a leak," he announced, standing up and quickly grabbing for his napkin to keep it from sliding onto the floor. "Hermione, make sure if the waiter comes round he leaves a dessert for me. I'll be heartbroken if I'm the only one that doesn't get to try the crème brûlée."

He headed toward the men's room and peed quickly, meaning what he'd said about not wanting to miss out on the dessert he'd spent the entire dinner salivating over. He was just as quick to wash his hands, but on his way out, past the bar, a familiar face caught his eye and he stopped to make sure his eyes didn't deceive him.

"Not playing tonight?" he asked the man he thought might have been the last formal's pianist. His recognition was confirmed: the man responded to his address, and the lined features corresponded exactly with the memory of the man who had done him the favor of playing the _Klavierkonzert_ for Hermione.

The pianist's eyes glinted with recognition (the characteristically red hair was no doubt a help) before replying. "Nope. String quartet's on," he gestured toward the four people with reddish wood instruments in the corner, and Ron remarked on the violin music he had been, unconsciously, listening to all evening. He made a note to ask Hermione what pieces they were playing: he knew she knew, and more importantly, he knew she would be delighted at being asked that.

"Must be a good night off, then," Ron said with a smile, leaning against the bar where the pianist was sitting. It was an almost parallel image to the Autumn Formal: however, this time Ron wasn't escaping from his table, but rather dying to get back to it; and this time, he'd brought along a girl he was mad about, and not one that drove him mad. "Hey, listen, thank you for what you did at that formal. Agreeing to play my request, I mean."

"No problem. It was the most fun I had that night," the pianist said with a crooked smile, knocking back his drink with the ease and familiarity of a well-oiled machine. He set the stout glass on the bar, motioned to the bartender for a refill of what was presumably scotch, and looked back at Ron with an arm still sitting on the bar. "So, tell me, lad, did you get the girl?"

"Huh?"

"The girl your piece was for? Did you get her?"

Ron's eyes drifted magnetically to the table in the far distance, which had been his destination before he'd made this little roadside stop. Hermione seemed to feel him looking at her, because he caught his glance and broke out into a grin. She wove a small white platter in the air, pointing at it exaggeratedly with a spoon, which Ron could only take to mean the crème brûlée had arrived and was waiting for him. Such a small gesture, the mere fact that Hermione had not only saved him the dessert he so wanted but had taken excitement in announcing it, made Ron overcome with emotion. God, how he loved her. It was with this unconditional, unwavering certainty in mind and an ear-to-ear smile that he vehemently answered the pianist: "Yes, mate. Yes, I did."


	55. Chapter 55

"I'm done."

Those two words, the ones Hermione had been waiting months to utter, tumbled from her mouth and onto her lap, past the desk where her laptop sat patiently, proudly displaying a finished draft.

"I'm done," she repeated, scrolling incredulously up and down the document as if she needed to corroborate that it was all there, that the first full draft hadn't vanished into thin air.

The expression on her face was one of simultaneous exhaustion and elation. While her eyelids drooped with fatigue, her eyes blinking frantically in a struggle to stay open, the lines of stress around her mouth and eyes had dissolved into the tautness of a smile that washed her whole face in a radiant glow, her eyes glinting with undeniable excitement at the finality of the project.

Those two words had roused Ron, who put aside the science magazine he had absentmindedly been leafing through and got out of bed to join Hermione at her desk. "Done?"

Hermione nodded proudly, gesturing at the screen. Ron leaned forward to squint at the text, making as if to grab it, but as soon as she sensed his intentions, Hermione yanked the laptop out of his reach and shut it abruptly.

"Nuh-uh. You can't read it until it's published. I want it to be a surprise."

"I don't get boyfriend perks?" Ron whined, and Hermione shook her head in a hard no. "Fine, then, I'll live in disappointment until then. But still..." he said, and swiveled Hermione's chair so she was facing him. He stooped to reach her and cupped her face in his hands: "...still, love, I'm so proud of you for finishing it."

"I can't believe I did," Hermione said, astonished. She rubbed her eyes, dry and bloodshot from having stared unwaveringly at the screen for so long. "It's kind of surreal, to think that I've been carrying this over from September and, seven months later, here we are."

Ron lowered himself onto her lap, careful not to drop the entirety of his weight on her by keeping both of his feet on the ground, his legs wrapped around the chair and his arms around Hermione's shoulders. "Ever thought this is how you would end it?"

"If you mean by having my clingy boyfriend sit on my lap after I'm done with the first draft, no, I most definitely never envisioned it," Hermione laughed, her own two arms finding their way around Ron's back to hold him in place. "No, but seriously... I never did. I wasn't too keen on this project to begin with, remember. I thought I would be frustrated by the end, that I'd cry tears of relief when I was _finally_ done with it. And that couldn't be farther from what I'm feeling."

"What are you feeling, then?"

Hermione smiled slightly before answering. "I don't feel frustrated. I feel vaguely nostalgic that this is all sort of coming to an end. And I don't feel _relieved_. I feel achieved, which is very different— I feel pride in my work and I know I'm going to miss it."

"Even when you go back to your big-girl linguistics project?"

"Don't be like that, because word on the street is Sinistra is wanting to put you on the quantum team she's launching in May," Hermione said, and despite the rumors having come from Ron himself, he couldn't help but smile warmly at the illusion of a secret.

"So looks like we'll have double the reasons to celebrate," he said, his right hand moving down to the hem of Hermione's T-shirt (a garment she had grown steadily more accustomed to wearing the more time she spent around the house with Ron). "And don't ask me what I have in mind for a celebration," he continued, his fingertips brushing the bare skin under her top, "because you know my answer, unlike the electron positions Sinistra might want me to study, is invariable."

"I have a feeling I know what you're thinking, and I think it would be perfect..." Hermione said, her own hand drifting slightly lower to close around the curve of Ron's bum. All of a sudden, she jerked slightly upward, shattering the sultry lull into which they were both falling.

"What's the matter?" Ron said, his hand automatically leaving Hermione's lower back.

"Wait, before we get into things —which I very much want to do, I have something to tell you," Hermione said, any traces of lust drained from her face.

"Should I be sitting down?" Ron said jokingly, staring down at the pajama-clad legs that served as his cushion.

"Probably somewhere with a little more support," Hermione said, nodding toward the bed.

Ron unraveled his long legs from around the chair and walked to the edge of the bed, where he sat dutifully and was joined by Hermione scarcely a moment later, after she had risen from the spinning chair and switched off the lamp on her desk.

Hermione couldn't help but let out a little laugh when she saw Ron's worried expression. "What's with the long face? You look as if you've had an anvil fall on you. This is good news, I promise," she said, reaching out for his hand and caressing it familiarly with the pad of her thumb as she held it.

"Well, then tell me them, woman, because I can hardly stand the suspense."

"Alright." Hermione took a deep breath, and as she spoke, her eyes remained fixed on Ron's, not for a moment breaking contact. "I heard back from the student records office. On McLaggen, I mean. This time, they actually passed on my report to the Office of Student Affairs, meaning your disciplinary complaint from all those years ago finally went through as well. And they decided to take action on it."

Ron felt his stomach turn— whether with excitement or dread was yet to be decided. "And?"

"We have a hearing date. For two weeks from now. They decided to put him through the highest category of disciplinary hearing that the behavioral contract comprehends. McLaggen got a notice yesterday— they notified me."

It was definitely excitement, Ron decided, or at least the beginnings of it. But it was just as quickly slashed through by a less than appealing query: "But how do we know he's going to show? He's a sleazy bloke, you know him, how do we know he won't just slip off?"

"Because his PhD is conditional on his appearance," Hermione said bluntly, and Ron was stunned. Seeing this, she elaborated. "Because, apparently, the records office had a backlog of complaints about McLaggen that made it clear he had a bit of a track record, the Student Affairs people aren't taking any chances. The notice said —I saw it myself, they emailed me a copy for transparency— that his ability to stay on the PhD program depended both on his appearance at the hearing _and_ on the result. If he somehow gets of the hook, he can stay on, but if the hearing finds the accusations to be founded, he's off. The catch is that, if he doesn't show, he gets thrown of the PhD program automatically and without opportunity of readmission. As it stands, he has no PhD anymore either way: his only chance is to show up and try to defend himself."

"Poetic justice," Ron smiled smugly. How many times had McLaggen tried to get _him_ off the program, out of pure spite, and who was facing expulsion now? "But you don't seriously think he stands a chance to 'win' this, do you?"

Hermione gulped and, for the first time throughout this whole exchange, looked briefly away before returning a slightly-quivering gaze toward Ron. "That's just the thing, Ron. I need you to be there."

"Me?" said Ron incredulously, feeling the color drain from his face. "Why?"

"Well, you were the one that raised the original complaint, and besides, I don't remember anything. I was the victim, but in my mind, I have no recollection of that night. But you saw everything. You confronted McLaggen that night, you brought Harry along, you were the sole and primary witness. I need you to be there, and they asked me to ask you. You're the only one that can give the full story."

Ron mulled it over, despite there being nothing to think about: of course he would do it. No other option had ever existed, but he had wanted Hermione to have this choice before he introduced himself somewhere he wasn't sure he was called for. "I'll be there," he said firmly, squeezing Hermione's hand. Her face shone in a smile. "Of course I'll do it, Hermione, what made you think I'd say no? You know, on the night that— _that it happened_ , I told Harry that I'd stay out of your way, but that if ever the administration reached out to you about this, I'd step right in to back you up and give the full story. And mind you, I wasn't even dating you then. But it's time to make good on that."

"My knight in shining armor," Hermione smirked, jokingly, but the glint in her eyes told Ron the sentiment was genuine. As if she had to prove it further, she leaned forward and wrapped him in a tight, grateful hug. "Thank you, Ron," she whispered in his ear, her grip around him staying strong. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Flustered, Ron brought a hand to her hair and patted it slightly awkwardly, his practice in intimacy seeming to have evaporated as soon as she rendered him unarmed with such a loving declaration. "Don't be silly, Hermione. I want McLaggen out of our lives and paying for all he's done just as badly as you do."

They stayed locked in the embrace for a few minutes, rocking slightly back and forth, arms cradling one another. When Hermione spoke again, she did it softly, without unsticking her cheek from its nook on Ron's chest. "Remember when I walked into that lab and pretended to be going out with you just to get McLaggen off your back?"

She heard Ron stifle a snort in her hair, still bunched up close to him because of the combination of the hug and their height differences. "Of course I did. The expression on his face is what I think about whenever I need a shot of serotonin."

"Who would've thought, huh?" Hermione said offhandedly, separating from the hug but immediately holding Ron's hand again.

"Thought what?"

"It would come true," Hermione said, turning pink at how mushy that sounded.

"You might just be a bit of an oracle, then," Ron said, brushing a strand of hair from her face and, with it, delicately tilting her head back toward facing him. 

"Oh, don't say that," snorted Hermione. "You know I don't believe in all that divination, fortune-telling crap."

"Too bad you might just be a soothsayer, then."

"But are you complaining?"

Ron looked at her, homey and unkempt in her pajama trousers and frayed T-shirt, her bushy hair a mess away from its usual clip, and her slender frame just at arm's length from being enveloped by him. Hermione, sitting on a bed they both shared, across from him, smiling defiantly up at him as if challenging him to say _no_. He broke out into a smile, leaned in to kiss her, and gave his answer with his lips still brushing hers: "No. I can't complain at all."


	56. Chapter 56

The easy sunlight in which the University had basked these first few days of certain spring now bathed the cobblestones with a light sheen, which was quickly made opaque by the shadow of footsteps as they passed over them. The footsteps in question belonged to four pairs of feet, as Ginny, Harry, Ron, and Hermione took an afternoon stroll, accompanying Ginny and Harry back from depositing the team renovation papers at the Office of Athletics, to ensure the football team was all set for next year.

"I think anyone who scored a goal this year should get an automatic pass," Harry was saying, engrossed in a discussion of what next year's tryouts would look like. Tryouts were usually held at the end of spring term and immediately at the beginning of next year's fall term, meaning it was paramount to sort out the first tryout round as soon as possible, as it was only a few weeks away. "I mean, anything to help us secure this year's victory, right?"

"That might be counterproductive," Hermione chimed in. Her fingers were threaded with Ron's, clasped hands swinging between their bodies, beside Ginny and Harry, who had their arms drawn around one another's. "I know I don't know too much about football..."

"After that Ilvermorny game, you're an honorary member," Ron said, and Harry and Ginny nodded their amused agreement.

"Well, yes, but not a strategist. But I do think it might lull people into a sense of security, of stagnancy. But if you want to see people play at their best, don't give anyone preferential treatment. People generally perform better when they feel there is something to prove at stake," Hermione finished, and squeezed Ron's hand almost unconsciously. Ron got the implication: _he_ certainly had stepped up his game in the lab when he had had his arse on the line.

"You've got a point," Ginny said, "we can't let people get too cocky. Imagine if McLaggen had scored a goal this year—"

"I'm so glad this is hypothetical," Ron grunted.

"—I mean, imagine the ego on him if that meant he got a free pass to be on the team. He'd be insufferable."

"And because of that policy, were we to implement it, we'd still be stuck with the bastard for another year," Ron continued, evidently delighting in ripping McLaggen apart. "We can't set that precedent."

"Good thinking, Hermione," Harry complimented her. "Who knows? We might have to bring you on as a strategist."

"God, no," Hermione said in a tone resembling genuine fright. "This is just common sense, but ask me to arrange eleven men on a field and I'll be drawing blanks."

"Anyone can learn," Harry shrugged.

"And learning's her forte," Ron played off of Harry. "Just look at Ms. PhD-at-25."

"Am I ever going to ditch that little moniker?" sighed Hermione.

"No, not really, but there are worse ones you could drag around," said Ron, squeezing her hand to reassure her it was all in good fun.

As they doubled the corner, back toward Hogsmeade Lane, a metallic glint caught Hermione's eye. She turned her head toward the source of the flash, and found that it had come from light bouncing off the enameled sources of the new plantpots Tonks had gotten, counseled by Neville, for the outside of Remembrall Records. Tonks herself was a bauble of pink hair moving in between the foliage, pushing her way through the cascading leaves with a watering can, and as soon as she spotted the four of them walking just a few feet away she raised her head to give them all a toothy grin and an energetic wave.

Hermione felt a tug at her hand, and she looked up to see Ron's eyes signaling toward Remembrall Records. She got the hint and smiled vaguely at the prospect of an unexpected pit stop on this uneventful afternoon. She squeezed Ron's hand back, and he knew to take that as a cue.

"We'll catch you both for dinner," Ron said to Harry and Ginny, who interrupted their pace to heed his words. "Hermione and I have got a little stop to make at Tonks's."

"Splendid," Ginny said. "Remember: my place, eight-thirty."

"What do you call the opposite of a housewarming party?" Ron said amusedly. "A housecooling party?"

The remark was relevant: Ginny and Harry had decided to move in together, into the flat he had to himself, leaving Ginny's current flat only to Demelza. Tonight's dinner, despite it not having been explicitly stated, was understood by all to be the last time they would step foot in that flat to see Ginny, which had already been touched upon with various degrees of mocking sentimentality by Ron and Harry (whose remarks about the bed in that flat and what they should do to give it a farewell were much more obscene, if not less public).

"Don't be dramatic, Ron, Demelza will still be living there. If you ever get sentimental and wanna check it out, just give her a call, though I'd advise against it to keep your creepiness ratings at the lowest possible level."

"I'm not creepy," Ron protested.

"Ask your girlfriend," Ginny smirked teasingly. Giving her brother and Hermione one final gesture of goodbye, she and Harry spun on their heels and continued toward Hogsmeade Lane, returning to the chatter about football strategy as if they had never interrupted it.

Hermione smiled to see them go, well-aware and taking pleasure in how well they complemented each other. Ron, however, was still stuck on Ginny's last jab, and brought it up as he and Hermione covered the few steps between the cobblestoned road and the entrance to Remembrall.

"Am I really creepy?"

"You know Ginny's teasing," Hermione said with a smirk, knowing the lack of a concrete yes-or-no would drive Ron crazy.

"That wasn't what I asked."

"Well, it's the answer you're getting."

They arrived at the heavy door, the new plants brushing their bare arms as they walked past, and pushed it open to let themselves into the shop.

The outdoor area, past the glass door to one of the sides, was also decked out in the new plants (Tonks was, undoubtedly, in on a fad), and filled with people who were enjoying the good weather with a drink and some company. The inside of the shop, by contrast, was made stuffier by the hotter weather, and was empty except for a few idle shoppers browsing the shelves for a record.

"I'm going to go check the secondhand bins," Ron said. Hermione smiled: she had seen his eyes drift toward that section, as if magnetically, from the moment they had stepped in the shop, and she knew its pull was irresistible. With a kiss to her cheek, Ron let go of her hand and nipped toward the bins, beginning to rifle through them almost at the very instant in which his fingertips brushed the top of the first sleeves.

Hermione, alone, made her way to the center counter behind which Tonks sat, furiously scrubbing at something on her apron with a moist towelette.

"You've got dirt on your cheek," Hermione said as way of greeting, resting her folded arms on the counter.

Tonks lifted her head, the concentration still etched in fading lines across her face. "I've got dirt everywhere, love, that's the whole thing." She gave Hermione another one of those toothy grins as she stood up off the stool and placed her palms flat on the counter, facing Hermione. "Well, this is a nice surprise."

"What, did you think I'd forgotten you?"

"Well, Remembrall hasn't been graced with your presence for a while, that's true, but I assumed you'd be busy, smart girl like you. Then Bill Weasley swung by to say hi and check out the shop, that was a month ago or so, and he confirmed it— told me if you weren't drowning in work already you'd be soon. Besides, I'm not one to get offended."

"You'd better not be, because I was out there taking your advice," Hermione smiled, the memory of the last time she'd been here —how hopeless and dreary everything had seemed to her— safely behind her like a cloud in a rearview mirror. "Things worth working for, remember?"

"What'd I tell you? Of course I was right," Tonks said, her eyes glinting with elation to hear that. "But I don't assume you're here to get any more patented Tonks tidbits of wisdom, are you?"

"No, not exactly," Hermione said. "I'm here to _finally_ make good on a promise from very, very long ago. I'm going to play you a record _I_ like, and that I think you will too."

"Oh, Lord," Tonks groaned. "This won't be any Chopin, will it?"

"Well, it will be classical, but I think you'll like it," Hermione said, taking Tonks by the wrist.

"Now I'm intrigued," Tonks said, leaping over the counter and out toward the shop.

"Where do you keep your Mozart?" Hermione asked, an idea clearly commanding her.

Once at the section (which was, predictably, shoved into a corner of the shop's upper floor and dusted over with forgottenness), Hermione selected a white-and-yellow record with a red band across the top. She and Tonks hurried downstairs, toward the record player that provided the soundtrack for the entire shop, and lifted the needle off the disc that was currently spinning in place there to replace it with the one Hermione had brought.

Before the needle touched the record, Hermione turned to Tonks with a conspiring smile. "Tonks, I know this is Mozart, but it's not any Mozart. It's a party song, something he wrote for his friends just for fun. And you'll never believe what it's called."

"What?" Tonks said, genuine interest sparkling in her eyes.

Hermione let the first four syllables of the choral piece do the talking. Tonks listened, mesmerized, as they filed out of the speakers with military precision and confident volume. "That translates," Hermione said, her smirk growing wider, "to 'lick my ass'."

It took a second for it to dawn on Tonks, but when it did, she roared with laughter, her mirth climbing with the chorus as the standalone voices climbed in intensity and perceived jollity.

"I take it back," she said to Hermione, who looked positively pleased. "I take it back, this isn't boring in the slightest."

"What'd I tell you?" said Hermione satisfiedly. She felt a tap at her shoulder, and turned to find a triumphant Ron waving a record sleeve that bore the picture of a kissing couple on its cover.

"Backroom?" Ron suggested, and Hermione nodded, leaving Tonks to enjoy the virtuoso obscenities of a jovial Mozart for the first time.

They made their way to one of the soundproofed rooms in the back, shutting the heavy door carefully behind them, with Ron's found record in tow.

He was quick to explain: "I found this buried in the secondhand bins, and I thought it wouldn't be right for me to fish it out without playing something off of it for you."

"What is it?" Hermione asked, already settled in the plush tartan armchair in the corner.

"This," Ron said, holding up the record so she could see it, "is the soundtrack to the movie _Pleasantville_ , a nineties American romantic comedy."

"So you're going to play me a movie score?" Hermione said, amused, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"No, not really. I, personally, thought the movie was cheesy. Ginny loved it, though, so this is between you and me. But it's not about the movie, it's about a song on it." He lowered the record onto the player and let the needle hover over it briefly. "It's a cover of an old Beatles song, 'Across the Universe'. Again, this is between you and me, because this is the first and only time you'll catch me saying that something is better than the Beatles, but I find the original is a little too gloomy. This one is... a bit more hopeful."

He let the needle scrape the beginning note from the record, a slow, plucky guitar that was quickly joined by a smooth drumbeat and a swooning female voice.

"It's beautiful," Hermione said from her seat, but Ron would have none of it. He marched over to the armchair and grabbed her by the wrists, pulling her up gently. "What are you doing?" she asked through a bubbling laugh.

"Nuh-uh, this isn't something you're going to sit down for. You and I are dancing," he declared, and, with determination, placed both hands around her waist.

Hermione, reluctance long foregone, wrapped both of her arms around his neck, and they stood in place, swaying with the slow and steady flow of the music that enveloped them, filling the room with dreamy sweetness.

"Not much for dancing, is it?" said Hermione, "staying rooted to the spot and just swaying back and forth?"

"I get to have you in my arms, don't I? Maybe that was the ploy all along."

"Maybe, maybe," Hermione said, leaning forward to rest her head on his shoulder. "Maybe you should be the strategist, then."

"Maybe," Ron laughed softly, drawing her closer and closing his eyes to bask in the moment.

"Remember how we said all of our 'moments' seem to be marked by the presence of a record player?" Hermione said softly after a few seconds.

"That's what I'm playing at," Ron said, the memory of their first kiss back at the Burrow still one of his favorite images to hail back to.

"Well, you might've unwittingly played at something else, too," Hermione said. "'Across the Universe'. Fitting song title if you remember our conversation during that first date at that pub."

"Oh, yes, alternate universes," Ron smiled at the memory. "Look at that, I'm even smoother than I thought I was being, and I didn't even have to try."

Hermione snorted into his chest, and Ron could tell she was rolling her eyes affectionately at him. They swayed quietly for a few more bars before Hermione spoke again. "So have you thought about it?"

"Thought about what?"

"Other universes? What you and I are doing there?"

Ron smiled. "No, not really. There's been no need for it, when my own universe has been so perfect since."

Hermione drew away, holding him at arm's length to look at him. He looked back, taking in every inch of her radiant face, unable to believe that all those months had brought them to this very moment. It was true: of all the universes with a Ronald B. Weasley in them, he felt truly fortunate to have been in this one. He leaned down to kiss her, and felt her warm hands settle on his chest, flat over the heart she knew beat for her only.

They stayed locked in the kiss as the song dwindled toward an end, the instruments fading out with the voice. Finally, Hermione pulled away and gave him a slightly-crooked smile, keeping her gaze hitched to his.

"Everything did turn out alright, didn't it?" she said quietly, suddenly remembering everything this year had held for the both of them to find them, now, here. "Everything's alright?"

Ron looked at her and saw her for everything she was and everything she meant to him, everything she had become since he had first laid eyes on her under that tree all those years ago. "It's better than that," he said, brushing her hair away from her face in an all-too-familiar gesture and cupping her cheek in his warm hand. "Everything's brilliant."

And, with the song coming to an end and the record left to spin itself out on the player, they shared a kiss that Ron knew, in the relativity of some universes, would last them nothing short of a small eternity.


	57. Epilogue

_**FROM THE DESK OF:** Hermione J. Granger, Ph.D_

**_NOTES  
_ ** _Dr. Shacklebolt, here is the first draft of the PR project— delivered, as promised, before the middle of April. There is, of course, a much larger dossier available (per your request) upon consultation, but this is the abridged version that can go in pamphlets and official communications. I'm pretty proud of it, but I'm eager to hear your feedback and make any tweaks before we send it on over to the PR office. Thank you for your confidence in this, and for entrusting me with it— I complained in the moment, but it's been a blessing in disguise if there ever was one. I hope it lives up to what you trusted me to make of it._

**'VOICES OF THE UNIVERSITY': First Draft  
** by Hermione J. Granger

To attend university, certainly is to study, to engage your intellect in a pursuit much greater than yourself. But not everything is about academia in the abstract. To attend university is to belong to its community. When you attend uni, you meet people, you make friends, and you step out of your zone to step into someone else's, someone whose hopes and dreams and interests are just as varied and compelling as yours. And what are the people here like? Let's offer you a glimpse into the world of some of the University's best and brightest, not just as scholars, but as people and community members, to show just how incredible the people that make up this place are— the very people you'll get the chance to meet if you choose to go here.

 **Harry Potter**  
 _Studied: Philosophy & Law, MPhil_  
 _Currently: teaches at the undergraduate level in the Faculties of Law and Philosophy_  
England once knew him as the "Boy Who Lived", but today, many of his students know him as "the contrary Mr. Harry", probably due to the fact that one of the first assignments undergraduates encounter in his classes is to argue with him without tapping out— if they're in his law classes, on a case; if they're in his philosophy classes, on a worldview. But off the debate floor, Harry is a passionate chap who loves his job, and likes nothing more than an oversweetened cup of coffee or a good scrimmage on the football field. An empathetic man and a phenomenal friend, Harry is well-known for being a good listener: whether it be his friends or his students coming to him, he's always got an ear up to listen and help. Perhaps it's this that makes him such a good captain for the University men's football team, which, under his leadership, obtained its latest championship in the just-passed season of University football. Whether you're looking for a class that challenges you, for a friend that will listen to you, or for a ruthless midfielder that will make it really hard to get past him on the football field, Harry's your guy.

 **Ginny Weasley**  
 _Studied: Gender Studies, BA_  
 _Currently: studying a in Statistics at the University_  
Ginny is the embodiment of a one-armed, friendly hug and a conspiratorial wink. A true Renaissance woman, there is nothing Ginny doesn't know or can't do: her degree is in gender studies, her masters in statistics, her dreams in journalism, and her heart in a pair of cleats to graze the football pitch with— she's a bolt of red hair at the head of the University's female soccer team. But ask her to show you a place she loves and she won't take you to her faculty, to the football field, or even to her flat: you'll find yourself sat across from her at a table in a dusty record shop, sipping something hot and listening to her play you a song she insists you _must_ know. Ginny is an example of brilliance, resilience, and the perfect embodiment for one of the greatest things this University has to offer: a place for strong, smart women who know what they want and need only to be given the tools to get it. Even better? You'll always find an ally in Ginny, meaning if you're like her, if you know what your heart's set on and can't wait to go get it, she'll be with you and lift you up every step of the way.

 **Draco Malfoy**  
 _Studied:_ _Chemistry, MSci_  
 _Currently: lectures at the undergraduate level in the Faculty of Sciences; researches in the University laboratories_  
Here is what sounds like the beginning of an academic riddle: what lives between bookshelves, silent but tangibly present? You need not rack your brains any further— the answer is encased in Draco. A brilliant chemist who likes his books to be ironically in season (ask him about his reading of _Jane Eyre_ during Valentine's), Draco likes to step out of the lab to bury himself in the pages of a good tome or two in the University library. The funny thing? He never bookmarks the pages, and he never checks the books out— his memory's just that good. And it's precisely this memory that also makes Draco _Draco_ : he will remember every little detail of any exchange you've had, which is part of what makes him such a reliable friend. And, of course, if you are one of those people that prefers to inflect their every phrase with sarcasm, he'll be able to keep you good company.

 **Dean Thomas**  
 _Studied: Architecture, MArch_  
 _Currently: chairs the University Committee for the Preservation of Historical Architecture; teaches at the undergraduate level in the Faculty of Architecture; is one of two University Fellows of Architecture_  
You wouldn't think from looking at his calm, friendly face that Dean is such a whiz with pen and paper, but the truth is he works magic by merely setting lines on a page. Beyond his architectural artistry (and the occasional doodle, since artistic drawing is a hobby of his, though he refuses to make anyone privy to his artistic pseudonym), Dean is a phenomenal cook and occasionally dabbles in University football. Everything Dean does is infused with a sense of generosity: he is the friend who, somehow, always appears by your side to give you whatever it is you didn't know you needed in that moment. He is a kind, gentle soul who tenderly loves everything he does, and makes sure it extends to everyone he crosses paths with. A steady, relaxed personality and a stable, genuine companion, Dean is often the much-needed support and confidant for many a student.

 **Luna Lovegood**  
 _Studied: Psychology, BA_  
 _Currently: interns with faculty members at the Faculty of Linguistics_  
It's ironic that Luna studies psychology, the science that seeks to pick apart what it is that goes on in our brains, because hers is absolutely impenetrable. You'll know her the minute you see her on campus: usually clad in ridiculous colors and patterns, her clothes seem like they were picked out of the backstage of a kooky theatrical play. Which Luna would love to hear: she loves every suggestion that the world we take as real might have cracks in it, and she takes it in stride to question everything around her. The real world doesn't stand a chance against Luna. A talented artist with a blunt tongue, Luna will never fail to give it to you straight even when it isn't when you want to hear— and she'll make sure her big blue eyes, behind mismatched tinted sunglasses, really drive the point home. So if you hear the clanking of bangles against each other approaching, don't stray: in all likelihood, it's Luna right behind you, and whether she wants to paint you, question the boundaries of rational existence with you, or simply be your friend, you'll end up being thankful you somehow managed to cross paths with this wonderful being.

 **Neville Longbottom**  
 _Studied: Biology, PhD_  
 _Currently: teaches at the undergraduate level in the Faculty of Sciences; researches in the University greenhouse system; advises in the conservational aspect of the University Botanical Gardens_  
Neville is the kind of person (and professor) who, seeing you're having a bad day, will shove you into his office for a cup of tea and a nice, unwinding chat. He is a soft person: soft-spoken, soft-mannered, soft around the edges, soft-smiling... Neville is the personification of a comforting hug. If you manage to have the pleasure of finding yourself in a greenhouse with him, stay clear of the more fragile potplants: his unbridled excitement to show you every little detail of the plant in it, combined with the endearing clumsiness that sometimes gets the better of him, might end in catastrophe for the poor little pot. Here's a tip should you be fortunate enough to count Neville among your friends: have some breakfast with him at the Three Broomsticks, share a pot of tea and a couple of pumpkin pastries, and you'll be assured his loyalty forever. And trust in this— that is a fantastic thing to have.

 **Seamus Finnigan**  
 _Studied: Computer Science, BSc_  
 _Currently: works in the University's IT Department  
_Seamus's bread and butter is sorting out the technological messes us less-witting folks get ourselves into in our daily fights against our gadgets— fitting, since he can be, for all intents and purposes, chaos on two legs. But that means being around him is riveting: Seamus is full of jokes and witty remarks, and if you're lucky, you might find his pockets are full of the butterscotch sweets he's so fond of as well. Seamus is more sound than word, laughing and grunting and snorting and everything in between so you always know what he's really feeling, what he's really thinking. But he's never shy of cracking fun at something or someone, though everything with him is always in good fun. A snappy guy with sandy hair and an irresistible permanently lopsided grin, Seamus is great at unknotting tangles whether they be in wires or of the more metaphorical kind.

 **Blaise Zabini**  
 _Studied: Mathematics, MSc_  
 _Currently: is one of three Fellows of Mathematics; advises graduate projects at the Faculty of Mathematics  
_To have heard a thunderstorm rumble, to have had one pass you over, is to have heard Zabini speak. Son of a bewitchingly beautiful model, Zabini was raised on self-confidence, and he wears it proudly to this day. You'll always know him by how well-dressed and sharp he looks, which, combined with his serious demeanor, might be somewhat intimidating. But fear not: Zabini expresses his camaraderie not in smiles and jovial outbursts, but in unwavering alliances with you and in subtle humorous remarks that you just might miss if you're not listening hard enough. You can find him scrawling some complicated formula or another in stark white chalk across an old-fashioned chalkboard, just as easily as you might find him enjoying a fine dinner at Godric's, one of the University's swankier haunts. Wherever you see him, Zabini is class and poise embodied— and those are two qualities that he won't hesitate to put to your aid should you choose to give him a chance.

 **Ronald Weasley**  
 _Studied: Quantum Physics, MSc_  
 _Currently: is in the process of finishing his doctorate; researches in the University laboratories  
_Ron is a walking disaster— he'll be the first to admit it. But that is precisely what is so phenomenal about him. Ron is the kind of person that has piles upon piles of papers on his desk because he can't be bothered to clean up, because he's so enraptured by his work that he thinks to devote a single second to anything but that would be a complete waste of time. He's a brilliant example of just how far passion can take you in your University journey. Ron is the kind of person that digs thoroughly through secondhand bins, that appreciates something that has been well-loved before it's his turn to love it, and that appreciates doubly anything with a story behind it. His frequent jokes come in a lightning flash, and teasing you comes as natural to him as the thousands of physical hypotheses that surely parade before his eyes every time he closes them. He's all heart, a heart big enough to hold you and everything you hold dear, because —coming from a large family—, Ron is an expert at learning to love things just because his dear ones love them. He's also a brilliant goalie— but don't ask him about his final-winning save, because you'd've just set yourself up to have him talk your ear off for hours. Ron is chatty, he's charismatic, he's got (according to a direct citation from him) "striking good looks and a magnetic personality", and he's loyal to the core, sticking through and through no matter what comes and expecting nothing in return. But, above all, Ron has a knack for making you thankful that, of all the universes he theorizes surely must exist, you have been lucky enough to end up in the one where you cross paths with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, friends, there we are— we have come to the end of In Another Universe, and what a delightful journey it has been (I hope for you as well as for me!).
> 
> Thank you for your readership, for all your kudos and subscriptions and comments, and for believing in this story from the beginning, when it was just a few scraps of an idea thrown together. It is unbelievable to me that I have managed to push through something as long and as demanding as writing this lovely fic has been, but if I have managed to do it, it has all been because of you and the encouragement you've offered both me and this story.
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed this journey as much as I have, and that you'll once again grace me with your readership once I've gotten another AU I already have in progress into an actual work. Thank you, infinitely, for reading and for shaping this narrative with your input and your kindness, and I hope this won't be the last time I have the pleasure to write something you enjoy.
> 
> Much love,  
> Rose <3
> 
> P.S: out of thought that it might interest anyone, I've compiled a small Tumblr playlist of all the songs that feature in this work. You can find it here: https://rosequartzstarswrites.tumblr.com/post/628740893339451392/in-another-universe-playlist
> 
> P.P.S: I shamelessly ripped the setting inspiration for the University from Cambridge University, in the UK. If you'd be interested in seeing the real-life spaces that inspired Hogsmeade Lane, the Three Broomsticks, or even the Faculties, check it out here: https://rosequartzstarswrites.tumblr.com/post/628740889954615297/the-university-iau-setting-inspiration


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